


The Pursuit Of Discovery

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU: Alternate Universe, And I fucking say so, And romantic idiots, Au: romance, Because I'm a sappy romantic idiot, Because they're fucking saps, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, John is a veterinarian, M/M, Romance, Sad masturbation...if that's a thing...it is, Sherlock is a scientist, ok, ooc, quite ooc, slightly OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:29:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 25,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a lonely scientist, his loneliness self imposed. John is a lonely veterinarian, his loneliness due to his neglectful husband. When John's husband accidentally takes Sherlock's lunch Sherlock takes his in revenge. What he finds inside takes his breath away. </p><p>This is based on a movie I heard about called The Lunchbox. I have not seen it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock strode into the lab with his usual air of superiority. He carefully hung up his coat and put his lunch and scarf in his cubby. He didn't talk to anyone as he made his way to his desk. People were chatting about their lives, something they usually did after a long weekend, and nattering on. Sherlock stuck his nose up at this kind of behavior. It reminded him of a hive of bees, all watching while one danced about to tell them where they'd been. The only difference was that bees' dancing had a purpose. This show was just to make others feel inadequate. Dull. 

He got through his set up in a good amount of time, and was glad to be starting on something new. By the time he'd calibrated all the equipment and began to take notes his mobile buzzed and everyone started to go to lunch. He waited another five minutes while putting everything on hold. Those five minutes would change his life. 

Sherlock walked to the cubbies to find his lunchbox gone. He glanced around and saw one that looked like his a few cubbies away. Michael. Stupid Michael Swanley had swiped his lunch. He picked up Michael's lunch box, intending to shove it in his face and ridicule him shamelessly, and was intrigued by how heavy it was. Just a look then. He'd just have one look. Inside were several plastic containers. One had a sheppard's pie, one a bit of cornbread, interesting, and another a pastry. 

He looked around and decided that if Michael was going to be stupid enough to steal his pathetic lunch, he had every right to eat what looked to be a delicious meal at his expense. He brought the food back to his desk and spread it out. It smelled even better than it looked, and the taste was...well, devine. 

The cornbread was moist, as apposed to the heavy stuff you could find in stores every once in a while, and delicious. The sheppard's pie was amazing, and the pastry was flaky and delicate. It was all in all the best meal Sherlock had had in years. What really intrigued him though, was what he found when he took it all out. At the bottom of the box was a small note folded in fourths. 

He opened it and read it in his head. 

' utterlybanjaxed:

I am not a poet.  
I am a scientist.  
I can measure the exact frequency  
of your voice when you speak my name,  
but I cannot explain how it resonates  
with such perfect clarity down my spine.  
I can describe the process by which you inherited  
your mother’s hair  
and your father’s smile,  
but I cannot explain where the twinkling galaxies  
in your eyes came from.  
I am baffled by the apparent gravitational anomaly  
that draws me to you  
with a force far too great for your size.  
I know of no way to quantify  
the volume of your presence  
in a room.'

It honestly took his breath away. How it was possible for someone as obnoxious and self absorbed as Michael to find someone like this to love him felt...devastating. Sherlock had heard him talk about his husband before. About how he was a veterinarian who worked part time in a clinic downtown. He'd scoffed over his husband's romantic gestures and small brain. He'd flirted with every man on the team. Bastard. 

Sherlock put the empty containers back slowly, secretly stashing the note in his pocket. He brought the empty box back to the cubicles and saw that Michael had indeed finished HIS lunch and put it back in his own cubby. He frowned and grabbed it, shoving it back in with his scarf and placing Michael's in his space. He took a second to hate the man, and then got back to his work. 

\-----

The next day at lunch Sherlock was disappointed to find that Michael had got over his blindness and hadn't taken the wrong box. He picked up his own and walked to the cafeteria for the first time. He always preferred to eat alone, the sound of others chewing making him want to commit murder, but he needed to know if there was more to the poem. 

He'd stayed up late that night, running his fingers over the words, folding and unfolding it again. He had hoped that Michael would make the same mistake, and had even brought a note to send back to his husband, should it occur. He felt foolish for hoping. Hope got you nowhere. 

He sat a few seats away and looked out of the corner of his eye towards the man. He was going on about some stupid trip he'd taken last year, shovelling what looked to be an exquisite curry into his gaping maw. He continued to talk with his mouth full and tear apart the naan without even looking to see that it had been not only hand made, but done with great care. At the speed with which he was eating Sherlock really doubted he was even tasting his food. 

Foolish imbecile. It was almost a tragedy that such painstakingly made food would be ignored with such fervour. He really didn't deserve it. Sherlock chewed his sandwich angrily and watched in horror as Michael took the note out, read it, crumpled and tossed it in the nearest bin. 

Sherlock waited until most had left the room before going over and retrieving the ball of paper. He opened it and flattened it out, nimble fingers trying to bring a bit of respect. He was once again entranced by what it said. 

' I am not a poet.  
I am a scientist.  
Prose is not my specialty.  
I will never be able to combine words  
to craft sonorous verses  
as easily as I combine chemicals in a flask,  
but know this — to me, you are every bit as fascinating  
as the view through a microscope.  
To me, you are a mystery greater  
than any cat in a box,  
and are fraught with as much uncertainty.  
Each day brings new understanding of you,  
and the knowledge  
that there is still far more  
to discover.

I am not a poet.  
I am a scientist,  
and there is nothing a scientist loves more  
than the the pursuit  
of discovery.'

Sherlock read through it one more time before walking back to the cubbies and secretly putting his own note in Michael's lunchbox. It was ridiculous to think that the note would make it to Michael's husband. It was ridiculous to hope that it would. Ridiculous, because hope is useless in the real world. 

\-----

The door slammed and John was a woken from his thoughts. He was making bread. Baking always made him less stressed, and today had been a bad one. A woman had neglected to clean out the wound on her cat's neck. She'd gone to the trouble of getting it stitched up in the first place, and then had let it fester for weeks before brining it in. The cat was in an enormous amount of pain, but once he'd held it the cat seemed to calm. He'd cleaned the wound and stitched it up. 

The worst part wasn't the way the wound looked, it was the fact that the cat would be going back to the same home. The woman pretended to cry, fake little sniffling noises making John want to scream, and thanked him. 'I just love him' she'd said. It was debatable. 

So now John was making bread. The thing about baking is that you are not only creating food, you are creating art and happiness if you do it right. That's all he'd ever wanted, to create a little happiness. 

Michael stumbled in and slammed his things down on the table. From the lilt of his walk to his glazed over eyes it was obvious he'd been drinking. He walked to the stove and took a fork full out of the side of the blackberry pie that was cooling. He took another and then walked away. John stared at the pie, once beautiful, now broken, it's symmetry destroyed. He tried not to hate his husband. He really tried. 

After he had set the dough aside to rise he turned, wiping his hands on his apron, and started cleaning up after Michael. He folded his jacket and set it aside, hanging his scarf on the door and grabbed his lunchbox. He brought it to the sink and took out the empty containers, running water in them and getting ready to scrub. Just then something caught his eye. A piece of paper was in the bottom of the box, just hidden beneath the napkin. 

He picked it up gingerly and turned it over. On the back was a poem, written in a scrawl he didn't recognize. 

' “You're an interesting species. An interesting mix. You're capable of such beautiful dreams, and such horrible nightmares. You feel so lost, so cut off, so alone, only you're not. See, in all our searching, the only thing we've found that makes the emptiness bearable, is each other.”  
― Carl Sagan, Contact'

His heart beat quickly in his chest. What was this? Who was this from? He ran to the study to find some of Michael's papers, hoping against hope that his feelings were somehow requited. At the first glance he knew it wasn't so. The handwriting was so different it must have been written by someone else. The question was who.


	2. No Longer Adrift

The next day Sherlock tried to listen in on Michael's conversation before work. He wanted to know his husband's name. It was as if just knowing the name would give him a better hold on the situation. One does not pray to a nameless God. One does not live in a nameless town. Name bring reason to an unreasonable world. 

So he stood still and listened, hoping for a word, just one word to fall from the man's lips. It took ten painful minutes to hear what he wanted, but he left the room with the knowledge that HE was called John. John. John. He tasted the name. He rolled it around in his mouth. He liked it. 

John. John was a strong name. There was John Dalton, the brilliant chemist, physicist and meteorologist. He was the first to record color blindness and worked towards what we think of as modern atomic theory. There was John Von Neumann, a pioneer in the application of operator theory to quantum mechanics. A genius who published 150 scientific papers in his lifetime. Or even John Ray, who gave us the use of species as the ultimate unit of taxonomy. 

There were eight Byzantine emperors named John, twenty four popes, and an unknown number of useless pop idols. The name wrecked havoc through history, leaving whole sections of schoolbooks alight with its flame. And now he had a John. Well, didn't have one per se, but knew of one his mind had become quickly entangled with. 

He snuck to the front and switched lunch boxes, not wanting to wait and see if Michael would make the same mistake again. No, John was his new project, and he would take it into his own hands. He got up early that morning to make rice and a teriyaki chicken breast for lunch. He didn't like teriyaki, but it could easily be mistaken for a good quality meal by the type of idiot Michael was. He wouldn't be able to tell the sauce came from a bottle. Idiot. 

Sherlock snuck back to his desk and tried to work, his mind a whir. It felt like it took ten hours for the lunch break to come, and when it did Sherlock had to work to not jump from his seat. He stood and walked quickly to his cubbie, not wanting Michael to get there first and mess up his plan. He took the lunch box from it and walked back to his desk. He felt like the whole room was watching him. 

Inside was a bag of crisps, a cucumber sandwich and some cut up vegetables. It looked normal enough, but when Sherlock bit into the sandwich he could tell the bread had been freshly made. There was something about a good homemade bread that reminded him of his childhood. He'd tried to replicate it at home, but he'd never been a good cook. 

He set down the sandwich and picked up the crisps bag, making himself wait to look at the note hidden below until after he'd eaten. He thought he'd open it right away, but now that it was so close he wanted the suspense to last a bit longer. He ate his crisps and took out the vegetables. He opened the container and popped a small piece of carrot in his mouth. He closed his eyes and savored the unexpected tang of the pickled vegetable. It danced across his palate with just the right touch of heat. Brilliant. 

When he'd eaten his fill he pulled out the note in the bottom of the box, running his fingers over the paper and trying to deduce anything he could about John. The paper was mid weight, not expensive, but not cheap. The ink didn't run through, so it was probably ballpoint. He smelled it. There was something woodsy beneath the scent of bread. Something mysterious. Enough mystery for one day, he told himself, open it!

'"Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known"  
Carl Sagan '

Sherlock held his breath. Yes. It was a sign. He'd not only got the note, but had enjoyed it. He'd enjoyed it enough that he'd found a way to let Sherlock know. Did he hope that Sherlock was the something incredible, or was he telling Sherlock he could be incredible for him? Either way it was a sign. Beautiful! 

He took out a notepad and found the poem he'd written the night before. He folded it carefully and set it in the box. He piled the empty food packaging on it and closed the lid. It wasn't a note anymore, it was a prayer. It was a prayer to a no longer nameless God. John. 

\-----

John paced the floor waiting for Michael to get home. He needed to know if his message got through. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice told him things like this didn't happen. Not to people like him. He'd put in all his chips, and now he was stuck. Michael was as good as his life would ever be. 

He wasn't a bad man, not really, but when he was around John seemed to dissappear. It hadn't started like that. Michael had swept him off his feet, one grand gesture after another. Maybe that should have been a sign. It felt wonderful, but it also felt a little like being bought. The gifts he gave were never personal, and that should have been another red flag.  
He never really cared about John's interests, and that was why John had started putting the notes in his lunch. He wanted so desperately to connect with his husband in a way he never had. It physically hurt to be so alone. 

Then there was a response. Not one he was expecting, no, but a response none the less. He was floating in space, totally adrift, and someone had found him. It was almost more amazing because it was someone random. He knew nothing about the person, only that he'd put out a signal and received one in return. 

The front door opened and Michael walked in, depositing his things on the table and walking directly to the telly. John took a few deep breaths before walking over and opening the lunch box. He found once he did that he couldn't take the empty containers out. They weren't transparent, and at this point he didn't know if there was a note below them. 

It felt obvious now how totally crushed he would be if there was no response. What was he playing at? How had he become so invested? 

He bit his bottom lip and walked over to the couch. He sat next to Michael and rested his head on his shoulder. The man didn't look away from the telly. He didn't acknowledge John's presence at all. One last try.  
"How was your day?" John asked, thumb rubbing over his wedding band obsessively. 

"Why?" Michael asked. 

"What do you mean why?" John said, dumbfounded. 

"Why do you want to know? Even if I try to tell you it'll be over your head. Don't see the point." Michael replied. 

John sat, mouth opening and closing, no words coming out. This is what his life had become. This was his existence. Adrift. 

He stood and walked over, pulling the containers out. There it was. His golden ticket. He smiled, taking it with him into the bedroom. He flopped down on the bed and held it to his chest. It wasn't the note he put in this morning. It was a perfect square of lined paper. It was heaven. He pressed it to his lips and opened it. 

' Nothing can take their place – no layman or lawmaker –  
no clinic or council.  
For those who can, with gentle hands and soothing words  
calm the fears of a stricken animal, has a gift  
reserved for few.  
Those who can diagnose the sickness of a creature that  
cannot speak – one that cannot by neither sign  
nor gesture give any indication of the seat of fatal  
illness – is endowed with knowledge, sympathy,  
and understanding far beyond that reached by  
ordinary people.  
Those who can, with the aid of medical science, brighten  
the eyes, stay the fever, energize the pulse, build  
resistance against diseases in an animal, has  
reached the goal only a favored few attain.  
And what are their rewards? The knowledge that they  
have lived a life of true usefulness in helping  
creatures that cannot help themselves.'

John dropped the paper, watching as it made its lazy way to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is 'the veterinarian' posted by Don Thompson


	3. Fantastic, Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter for you guys because I have to go to work. I promise to write the second half and post it tonight.

Sherlock got up an hour early the next day to make lunch for Michael. What a bizarre thing that was. He wasn't alone though. Across town John was awake as well. He stood at the sink and thought. He was a little disturbed by the fact that the note had been specifically for him. He thought the person must have heard Michael talking about him. It wasn't the only possibility, though. He worried his bottom lip, wondering if he had a stalker. 

Then he wondered if that would change anything. Could he just continue this strange flirtation while not knowing if the other person was a lunatic? Yes. Yes. The answer was yes. Fuck. He was already in too deep. All he could think of was the mystery on the other side of the notes. All the could think of was what would be said next. 

He set to making the sticky rice and sashimi, paying close attention to every detail. He needed it to be perfect. This communication was the only thing in his life that made him happy. What a dismal truth. 

\-----

At lunch Sherlock got out 'his' lunch box and eagerly opened the top. He couldn't wait, so he took out the containers and set them aside. Once again there was a small note. He touched it for a second without picking it up. He ran his fingers along the edges and tried to imagine the hands that wrote to him. Were they confident? Did they shake like his, desperate for the only connection to continue? He held his breath and opened it. 

'The last time he had a dream he was just a boy, cocoa and tipp-ex under his nails. He dreamt he was a hero and he had a cape, a cape made of black, slick feathers - like a raven. And he had a rag companion, with a lion painted on its chest and a smile painted on its face. And he, wrapping it tightly, took it to fly through the night. And they circled the moon, and they chased stars, and they saw the day break sat on the highest cliff of an endless land, their legs hanging over the edge, their hands almost touching. When he woke up, he had no cape, he was bracing his pillow, and the sun was rising for him and nobody else. He felt angry and hollow, so he decided he wouldn’t dream again. And with that, he became an adult. - anarmydoctor '

Sherlock realised quite suddenly that his hands were shaking. He heart was shaking. His whole body was shaking with want. He wanted to wrap this man up in his arms and steal him away from the world. He wanted to take him to a place where he'd never see the disappointment that others had brought him ever again. He wanted to tell him that it was other people that made the world a horrible place, not the world itself. 

He wanted to paint a lion on his chest and smile and never let him go. But smiles were not something Sherlock did well. He'd never had a real reason to smile. He'd never got used to the feel of it on his face, so when he made a breakthrough and found out some fantastic thing at work he would slip the smile from his face. He would hide it away because it itched. It tried to run because his face was not its home. 

And now, while his heart was breaking all he wanted was to smile for this man. This John. This greater than any other, positively brilliant, utterly his, John. 

Instead he wrote the only poem he knew by heart, and folded it with precision, hoping against hope that this perfect square would speak volumes. Hoping that the care he put into folding it would be recognised for what it really was. Love. New, fantastic, impossible love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem has been altered a bit. I changed the few times it said 'Sherlock' to 'he'. Brilliant wonderful anarmydoctor, I hope you don't mind.


	4. Fire

John cleaned the house. He always cleaned the house when he was stressed out. He was on the floor scrubbing the edge of the entryway with a toothbrush when Michael walked in. He took one look at John and knew something was wrong. 

"I'd be afraid you were cheating on me, but no one would want you." He said nonchalantly, walking to the sofa and turning on the telly. 

John sat stunned for a moment, not sure if he'd heard him correctly. He slowly stood and walked to the sitting room. 

"That's a horrible thing to say, Mike." He said, voice shaky. 

"Oh, come on, I was kidding!" He said. 

John frowned and picked up his lunch box. Well, if he was going to be like that he could sit alone. Not like he'd notice. Not like he ever did. 

John brought the box to the kitchen and opened it. He made himself clean everything out before looking at the note. The small amount of washing up settled his nerves. He dried his hands and picked up the paper, walking to the bedroom and closing the door. He sat on the bed and opened it. 

' I wanted to write “stay” on your sides  
Surround your bed with oceans of salt  
I hope he folds you into a fox,   
loves you like a splintered arrow,  
brandishes the kill of your lips.  
May the bouquet of your hips wither  
May the wolves forget your name  
-J. Bradley '

John's breath came in hard little puffs. Jesus. 

\-----

Sherlock stood in his sitting room, opening books and then tossing them to the floor. He had to find something new. Something worthy of John. He knew he had poems somewhere, poems that took his breath away. They were his guilty little pleasures, the only amount of humanity he allowed himself. He'd never known anyone that had made him want to share them. He'd never met anyone who he'd felt comfortable enough to. At least now, since he wasn't there, if John laughed at him he wouldn't know. 

That had always been his fear. He'd been called a machine so many times he almost started to believe it. And yet, there was still that little bit of fire inside him that ached to be stoked. That little warmth that lay dormant for so long. Now it felt like a bonfire. Every morning on his way to work it would grow, willing itself to crawl from his mouth. That bit of humanity seeking birth. 

Yes, he'd found it. 

'Set your life on fire. Seek those who fan your flames- rumi'


	5. Golden

The next day Sherlock made steak and potatoes. He added carrots and peas, and a few biscuits. It felt like he was building something. Some kind of bridge from him to John. He packed everything in and got on his way. He was early to the tube, and stood in a tight crowd on the platform. 

As the doors opened and people started filing in he caught a glimpse of Michael. There was a man with him. A short man with golden hair and sad eyes. Michael looked over at him just as the man handed him his lunch. 

"Sherlock!" Michael shouted, running over and leaving the man behind. 

Those sad eyes followed Michael and the man looked briefly at Sherlock before sighing and walking away. Sherlock stood completely still, watching him dissappear into the crowd. It couldn't be. 

"Yoohoo! Earth to Sherlock!" Mike said. 

Sherlock looked over at him, suddenly coming back to himself and remembering where he was. He looked at Michael with intensity. 

"Jesus, you're even weirder today than you usually are." Michael said. 

"Was that your husband?" Sherlock asked, willing his voice to stay strong. 

"Yeah, waste of time, him walking me here everyday. Maybe he just wants me to kiss him in public. Pathetic really, his lack of self esteem." Michael said. 

Sherlock looked like he was going to hit him and walked quickly away. 

\-----

At lunch Sherlock opened the box slowly. There was spaghetti with meat sauce. French bread, already buttered. Cut up pear, apple and peach covered in honey and some madelines. Sherlock ate the fruit first, closing his eyes and savoring it. He thought of the summers he spent in France, and the trees that bore so much fruit they started to droop under their weight. He thought of his childhood in the orchards behind his family's first home. He thought of the innocence before reality shut him down. He thought of radiant sunlight and the color of John's hair. 

The madelines were perfectly moist with just a small amount of crispness on the edges. He ate a few and then got onto the pasta. As he ate he allowed himself the small pleasure of smelling the note placed in the bottom. He closed his eyes and imagined coming home to a busy kitchen and walking up behind John to kiss his neck. He smelled the woodsy scent and stifled a moan. 

When he opened the note he wasn't surprised to see that it was in John's perfect penmanship. This little view of his world was almost overwhelming. 

'The next night I danced for him in his father's house, removing my clothes, in spite of the cold. I wanted to give him something. I wanted to feel what he felt.- francesca lia block'

Sherlock put the paper in his beast pocket, promising himself that someday someone would dance for him. Someday. 

That night he went to his computer and searched for Block. It took him three minutes to find 'Echo' and five to download it on his Nook. It took him two hours to read it.

\-----

John opened the box that night, delighting in the fact that his admirer had practically licked the containers clean. There was a small box wrapped in starched cloth. Inside was a wonderful smelling bar of soap. It was freesia, one of John's favorite scents. Under it was the note. He opened it right there in the kitchen. 

'Set your life on fire. Seek out those who fan your flames. - rumi'

And below it in a looser scrawl were a few more lines. They weren't in quotes. They read;

I saw you today. You looked sad on the platform. I'm sorry you're sad.


	6. Dream A Little Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of porn.... Hells yes! 
> 
> And Michael is not Mike Stamford. I think. Mike Stamford would take care of John and love him dearly.

That night John dreamt of cheekbones and dark curls. Of mysterious eyes and a dark coat. He was making his way through an outdoor market, dashing here and there, trying to keep up. The man was just ahead, but at every turn someone cut John off and he lost sight. He pushed his way past old women and goats, tripping over his feet and cursing. 

Just ahead he saw a dark coat dissappear around a corner. He carefully avoided a cart full of apples and rounded the building's edge. 

Everything was suddenly dark. His eyes couldn't seem to adjust to the sudden lack of daylight, and he was essentially blind. He felt warm breath on his neck and heard a sigh. It was his own. 

"I saw you today." A voice said. "I wanted to touch you." 

John woke with a start, covered in sweat and panting. He was in his room. He was alone, Michael had been sleeping on the sofa for the last few months, the bed next to him empty. He lay back and closed his eyes, willing his mind to recapture the dream. It was to no avail. 

He stripped off his sweat soaked clothes and lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. He thought of the dark curls and cheekbones as he trailed a hand down his chest. His fingers brushed through his pubic hair and he let out a sigh. He pretended it was the man's hand and not his own. It had been almost a year since anyone had touched him like this. It was overwhelming. 

He reached to his bedside drawer and took out the bar of soap he'd hidden there. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes, gripping his swollen cock and stifling a moan. He thought of the surprise in those beautiful eyes and knew the man had realised it was him. He stroked himself slowly, letting his thumb roll over the leaking head. 

It sent shocks through his body and he had to keep himself quiet again. He turned over and buried his face in his pillow, holding his hand still and thrusting in and out of it. He pretended he was sinking into the heat of that brilliant gorgeous man. He whispered to him. 

"You're not alone." He said, speeding up his thrusts. "You're not alone." 

He tightened his fist and imagined the man coming, milking his cock with his own orgasm. He fucked his hand roughly and came seconds later, gaping for air and thinking 'Sherlock'. 

\-----

Across town Sherlock was in his own bed. He held one of the notes in his hand and rubbed the small vibrator in circles around his arsehole. He'd fingered himself for the last few minutes, thinking of golden hair and strong shoulders. He slipped the vibrator in and angled it to find his prostate. He wanted to come without touching his own cock. He wanted to come just from John's prick...the vibrator. 

He hit his prostate after a moment of fumbling and cried out. He pulled it out and thrust it in again, aiming it and making contact. His body tensed and shook, hand grasping the note. He pulled the vibrator out and this time before thrusting it back in he smelled the note. His belly tensed and he came hard, screaming 'John, John'. 

He lay there in the dark, alone and covered in his own come. He felt foolish. Foolish for falling in love. Foolish for loving someone he couldn't have. Foolish for opening himself up to more pain.


	7. Crave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock meet properly.

Sherlock was purposefully early the next morning, setting out the ingredients for his (Michael's) lunch the night before. He put things together with care and got to his stop fifteen minutes early. He sat quietly, watching the people walk to and fro, waiting for a 'chance' encounter. 

Five minutes later he looked up to find Michael walking forward with John. The smaller man didn't look up. Sherlock stood and tentatively moved towards them. 

"Goodmorning." He said to Michael, eyes flitting to and away from John. 

John looked up, surprise evident on his face and blushed.

"Sherlock, I'm surprised that this is only the second time I've seen you out here. You must be an early riser, like this one." Michael said, gesturing to his husband. 

"Just started getting up early recently, actually." Sherlock replied. 

Michael looked confused, due to the lack of information, but didn't say anything. John was gripping the lunchbox tightly, eyes on the ground. This was it, the moment Sherlock had been waiting for. He took a chance. 

"I'm Sherlock." He said, taking a nervous step forward and holding out his hand. 

John only looked at it, eyes wide, and licked his lips. Sherlock turned his hand slightly, the way you might to show a dog you weren't there to harm them, and John looked up. There was a hesitation as John looked towards Michael, and then he gripped Sherlock's hand. The grip was strong and John rose, shoulders back. Sherlock smiled and gripped his hand tighter. 

"John." John said weakly. He shook his head slightly and cleared his throat. "John." He said, voice more assertive. 

The edge of Sherlock's mouth curled up. 

"You used to be a soldier. A good one at that. Crack shot. Good man to have on your side." Sherlock stated quickly. 

John pulled his hand back and Michael rolled his eyes. 

"Sherlock does that." He said to John. "Tells your secrets to everyone, bit of a parlour trick." 

Sherlock scowled and John did something odd. He turned to Sherlock, physically blocking Michael, and spoke. 

"I think it's brilliant." He stated. 

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at Michael and then back at him, furrowing his brown slightly. "Really?" 

"Yes. Brilliant. Quite brilliant." John repeated. 

Sherlock grinned, a lopsided hearty grin. John's body felt like it would burst with energy. He wanted to kiss this man. He wanted to run his fingers through his dark curls and tell him he was brilliant over and over again until he believed it. 

Michael, feeling more than a bit left out of the revelry, stepped between them and motioned to the approaching train. 

"That's us, Sherlock." He said. 

Sherlock, who had been staring at John with that stupid lovely grin, looked up as if woke from a dream. Michael turned around and Sherlock quickly switched lunchboxes with John, giving him a playful wink and walking away. 

\-----

Before lunch Michael approached Sherlock's desk. Sherlock, afraid that the immediate attraction had been noticed, ground his teeth. 

"Sherlock. Not sure if you'd like to, but I'm having a few mates over later this week. Roberts just told me you're on the next project with me and Meyers, and he'll be there."

Sherlock sat shocked for a few moments. He wished he didn't hate Michael so much. He hadn't been asked over to anyone's place in a long, long time. And back then it was the same as now, they needed help with a project. Now he had a chance to see John again, and maybe for longer than five minutes. 

"You'll have to put up with John, though. Think he's got a bit of a crush on you. Always was one for the weirdos." Michael added. 

"Yes." Sherlock replied quickly. 'Yes to everything' he thought. "Should I bring wine?" 

"Sure. Here's the address, seven pm on Saturday." Michael said, handing him a piece of paper and walking away. 

Sherlock's heart pounded, apparently conditioned to do so at the sight of a small folded note. Wonderful. 

\-----

"John, woman with a small dog. Says it's been in labor for the last twelve hours." John's assistant said quietly. 

John nodded and turned to his board. He'd have to move up the dentals until tomorrow. Another five hundred pounds down the drain if the people decided to cancel the appointment. Fuck. 

The door swung open and a woman came in carrying a terrier in distress. He pulled on some gloves and cooed the dog while palpating the abdomen. 

"I can't pay you. She's not even my dog. My son left her at my place and my dog got to her." The woman said. 

"And your dog's not neutered?" John asked, already knowing the answer.  
"Don't have the money." She said. 

John nodded and sighed. "We'll have to get her into surgery right now, take a seat outside." 

"Okay." The woman said, walking slowly from the room. 

"And bring your male dog round next week. I'll neuter him for free." John added. 

\-----

At lunch Sherlock opened the lunchbox and took out the familiar containers. They were filled to the brim with what his mother would call 'pub food'. There were several types of olives and cheese in small chunks. There were nuts and cured meat. A baguette had been cut up and put to the side. Sherlock smelled it and closed his eyes. Gorgeous. 

He ate slowly, chewing each small bit with intent. When he found himself picking through for his favorite olives he laughed out loud. He hadn't thought of food as pleasurable for a long time, and now there was this. He wondered why it had taken him so long to fall back in love with it. Perhaps it just had to do with John. John had given him food so devine he'd forgotten to deny himself. 

He wiped the edges of his mouth and took out the note. He unfolded it and was surprised to see that it was a letter from John, not just some copied prose. He almost felt like he was a voyeur, sneaking a view I to this man's life. He steeled himself and read it. 

'It's hard for me to talk about these things. It's hard to face them. I'm so sick of my existence. I'm so sick of people walking all over me. Every day I'm reminded that I'm not smart enough, I'm not quick enough, I'm not desirable enough. At work I see the cruelty of humanity. I see what people do to those who can't defend themselves. I'm asked to repair the wounded and send them back out into the world that wounded them. I'm asked to bleed, and when I do, others tell me that they bleed more. It's this sick competition, who can hurt the most. 

Then there's you. You think my food is wonderful, I can tell by the way you eat every last bite. You think it's good enough to steal. Thank you for that. You think the poems and quotes I pick are worthy, not just of reading, but of responding to. You think this small thing I do is so good that you make me want to never give up. 

You have given me back my life. Every day that I get up and make food it has a purpose. Every day I clean out the empty box I get to see a little bit of you. I know it's dangerous to be so candid here, but you make me crave danger in the most exciting way. I crave you, and everything you do to me. - John'

Sherlock set down the note and closed his eyes. John.


	8. Ten Million Years

That evening when Michael got home he informed John that 'his crush' was coming over for dinner later in the week. John blushed furiously and Michael laughed at him. 

John took the lunchbox from the table angrily and opened it. He cleaned the containers out and told Michael he was going to bed early. The man didn't even look up, just grunted. 

John went to the bedroom and sat on the bed. He opened the note up, feeling like he might cry, and held it in his shaking hands. He thought that being so honest might scare Sherlock away. He didn't want to read the note, afraid that it might just be another person laughing at him. Well, if he was going to be discarded it might as well be now. He read the note.  
"She makes tamale pies, spinach lasagnas, Indian saffron curries, Coconut and mint Thai noodles, grilled salmon tacos with mango salsa, persimmon bread puddings and raspberry-lemon pies, each one in minutes and without ever glancing at a recipe. And my mother's food has almost narcotic effects- no matter how depressed or agitated we feel before dinner, we always relax afterwards into a dreamy stupor. - Francesca Lia Block"

And below were another few sentences. 

'Everyone else can dissappear. Everything else can burn to the ground. I feel like it's taken ten million years to find you. I won't let go.'

John lay back in bed and felt warm tears roll down his cheeks. His life had taken on a peculiar type of dichotomy, both fantastic and tragic. He wondered if he might die from the two warring emotions. He wondered if he would care. 

He supposed that his life had taken such a strange turn that crying while masturbating wouldn't make it any worse. He laughed at the thought and gripped himself gently. If he was going to go down, he might as well be in flames. 

\-----

Sherlock lay in bed, naked and sweating. The rain rolled down the window and cast the room in an eerie glow. He closed his eyes and gripped his aching cock. Fuck. Fuck. It was almost too much. He thought of John, shoulders back, commanding air about him. He thought of John telling him the things he'd written in the letter. 

'I crave you.'

He stroked his cock once and let out a low feral whine. He hadn't done this in so long, and now he felt like he would never stop. He'd starved his own body of affection and one word had changed everything. John. He felt like he might burst with uncontrolled lust. He felt it welling up and leaking from his bones. 

'I crave you.'

He turned over, barely able to stay on his hands and knees. 

'I crave you.'

He gripped his cock harder and fucked the tight ring of his fist. He pretended it was John's body. He pretended his overwhelming heat was pulling him in. 

'I crave you.'

He came with a shout, shooting come all over his sheets, and fell onto his side. His mind was blank. All the static blissfully gone. 

\-----

John stroked his cock quickly, tears still falling down his face, once again torn apart by warring emotions. He ran his thumb over the head of his cock and sucked a finger into his mouth. He stifled a groan and slipped the wet digit between his cheeks, rubbing it in circles and hinting at pressure. He tightened his fist and bit his lip, willing himself to last a bit longer. He pushed in just the tip of his finger and it was over. Beautifully, tragically over.


	9. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

The night of the dinner came and Sherlock and John did a bizarre dance. Neither of them knew the other was doing it. They both stood in front of the mirror, trying on different outfits and desperately hoping to impress. Sherlock tried on five different shirts before going with his favorite dark green one. He put on his only pair of jeans, thinking it might be best to look casual...then removed them just as quickly. Jeans still didn't make sense on him. 

John tried on seven different sweaters before choosing a dark grey one with a v neck. It matched Sherlock's slacks. He wore his favorite jeans, wondering if slacks would ever feel as comfortable. He wore his lucky red pants and blushed to no one at all. 

John started hors d'oeuvres and tidied up a bit. Michael had instructed him to make something people would actually eat, and not just his snooty stuff. The phrase 'snooty stuff' made him want to vomit. He bought a bag of chips and some dip for the people who wanted something simple and set about making what anyone in their right mind would consider the most mouthwatering platter ever. He knew at least one person would appreciate them. 

\-----

Sherlock rang the door bell, scowling at the ruckus on the other side of the door. They were probably already drunk. 

The door opened and Michael motioned for him to come in. He tried his best not to frown when he saw that the group, made up mostly of Michael's idiot friends, was indeed under the influence. He brought the bottle of wine he'd bought to the kitchen and opened it, pouring himself a glass and sighing. 

"Not your kind of shindig, I take it?" John asked. 

Sherlock turned with a start and gazed at the man he'd fallen so hard for. John was smiling, an open easy smile, radiating happiness. Sherlock swallowed hard and thought that it really was a shame that he rarely had reason to be this way. 

"Not really, no." He said at length. 

John chuckled and handed him a plate. Sherlock's eyes smiled, John swore they smiled, and he took a mini torte. He held it like it was precious, looking at John before closing his eyes and taking a bite. John waited patiently for his response. 

Sherlock breathed deeply, licking crumbs from his lips and opened his eyes. "You genius." 

"Good one, Sherlock." Michael laughed from behind him. 

John's face broke and Sherlock turned. 

"I meant it." He said curtly. "I think you should take a moment to realise what you have." 

Michael snorted, grabbed three hors d'oeuvres at once and crammed them into his mouth. Sherlock turned back to John as the man walked away. 

"He's an idiot." Sherlock said. 

"Yeah, but he loves me...I suppose." John replied. 

"Leave him." Sherlock said quickly. 

It was out of his mouth faster than he could process what he'd said. He was horrified by it, hands suddenly sweating. He wanted to run as far away as he could and never come back. John stood silent with his mouth open. 

"I-I-I can't." He finally stammered. 

Sherlock curled his hands into fists and felt his short nails dig into the skin painfully. Moment of truth. 

"I'm difficult to live with. I'm bossy. I'm selfish and I leave messes on every surface I can reach." He said. "I don't sleep most of the time and I smoke and I hate most people and I haven't got any manners. I don't understand social cues and I'm sometimes cold, I have trouble talking about my emotions, and often pretend I don't have any. I'm a strange man, but I can promise you this; I will love you with everything I have, John Watson. I will show you everyday how much I care. I will never let you believe you are unwanted or unworthy. I will stomp out anything that gets in your way and I will need you more than I can express."

John was stunned silent. 

Michael walked back over and handed John some empty plates. John took them and put them in the sink, scrubbing them harder than necessary and biting back tears. 

"Please." Sherlock whispered. 

John choked back a sob and shook his head. Sherlock bolted for the door. 

\-----

Sherlock sat on the floor next to his closet, working up the loose floorboard with a nail file. He was done. He knew it wouldn't work. Things never worked out for him. Maybe he didn't deserve it. The board came up with a loud crack and splinters went flying. He pulled out the small box below and prepared his solution. Ten percent. Perfection. 

He hit the vein on the first try and wondered what had taken him so long to feel this utter bliss again. The name John disappeared from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will get better.


	10. Wonderful Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so things have gotten a bit out of hand and Sherlock is more than a bit ooc, but I don't give a shit because *background music swells* faaaaaaaaaaaallling in Loooooooooooooooove!

The first day back at work Sherlock slept in on purpose. He didn't have any reason to make lunch for a man that held the love of his life hostage. He'd forgotten about John for a good ten minutes the other night, and spent the rest of the night vomiting. He took a cab to work and didn't look up until he got to his desk. 

At lunch he ate his meager portions at his desk and dodged questions about why he left the party early. He opened his notebook when he was finally alone and ripped out three pages. He crumpled them and tossed them in the bin. They had hand written notes on them. They no longer had a recipient. 

'I want to taste your lips before coffee and your skin before sunshine. - sunalwaysshining'

' when I think about kissing you I think about your lips. Kissing is about more than lips, it's hands and breath and hair and sweat, and I want all of that with you. When I think about kissing I think of how straight your teeth are and how my lip would feel crushed between them. I think of salt and spit and slurping and I wonder how it can be such sloppy things might feel so beautiful. When I think about kissing I think of your voice and the way your whispered will feel on my neck. I think about the way your hands are shaped and how I want nothing more than to hold them and tell you that I love you. - Aliciamakeswords '

And finally;

'People will kill you over time, and how they'll kill you is with tiny, harmless phrases, like  "be realistic". - Dylan Moran'

\-----

It took a whole week of opening the lunch boxes to either unopened or gone notes, as well as some scathing remarks from Michael, for John to come to terms with Sherlock no longer switching the lunches out. He wanted to die. Things were bad enough when they were bad, but to go from bliss to nothingness took everything out of him. 

On the next Monday John was so listless he didn't go with Michael to the tube. Because of that Michael forgot his lunch and called him asking, ok, demanding he bring it. John acquiesced and got in the shower. He been planning on sleeping the whole day, but that was shot to shit, wasn't it? 

When he got to Michael's work with the Lunchbox Sherlock was up front. They locked eyes and Sherlock looked away. He started to walk in the opposite direction and John caught his hand. 

"Don't leave." He said, voice desperate. "Please, just don't leave." 

Sherlock sighed and turned around. "What do you want from me? I can't talk now, I'm at work."  Sherlock said gruffly. 

"I know. Look, Michael's going out drinking tonight. He'll be out late, come over at seven. Just to talk, okay?" John asked, pain in his stomach. 

Sherlock walked away quickly without responding. 

\-----

That night, against all his instincts, Sherlock picked up a bottle of wine and headed to John's. He tried not to think of being romantic. John, no matter how much he wanted it, was not his. 

John opened the door, looking into Sherlock's eyes and gripping his hand. Sherlock followed him into the flat and went to the kitchen to open the wine. He poured himself a glass, took a swig, then poured one for John. He joined him in the couch, sitting a bit away, and looked at the floor. 

"You wanted to talk. Here I am." He said quietly. 

"I know we have something...well I think we had something...and I don't want to let go of it." John said. 

"But you're married." Sherlock whispered. 

"I can't just leave him. What if this doesn't work out? What if we don't work out?" John asked. 

Sherlock turned to him and frowned. "You want to talk worst case scenario? Fine. Worst case scenario you end up divorced from your horrible husband. Worst case scenario you don't have to be with someone who treats you like shit. Do you want to know what my worst case scenario is?" 

John shook his head slowly. 

"I don't end up with you." Sherlock said. 

Just then Michael walked in the door with two drinking buddies. He took one look at them and started laughing. Sherlock stood up reflexively and faced him. 

"Well look at you two playing house. You've really sunk to an all time low, Johnny boy. Did you fall in love with the freak? Why don't you-" Michael began. 

He wasn't able to finish his sentence with a broken nose. John stood and tried to push his fist directly through his idiotic face. Sherlock watched, horrified as blood ran down John's husband's face.

"Don't you ever call him that!" John screamed.

Sherlock grinned, took John's hand and dragged him from the room, then the apartment, then the street. He ran home, John jogging behind him. When they made it into the foyer they collapsed against the wall in a fit of giggles. Sherlock grasped John's hand and smiled at him.

"I just ran away from home! That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done! " John laughed.

" And you married Michael." Sherlock whispered. 

John, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to kiss that beautiful mouth did so. He fisted his hands in Sherlock's jacket and pulled him up against his body. Sherlock kissed him greedily, cocking his head to one side and licking into his mouth.

He drew back and smiled down at John, running his fingers through his short hair.

"You gorgeous man! You utterly wonderful worthy man!" He exclaimed.

John growled and pulled him in for another kiss. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and attempted to snog him to death. He didn't hear it when John removed his wedding ring and let it drop to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is porn. Poooooooorn.


	11. Go Slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poooooooorn 
> 
> And some feels. Next we'll see how John reacts to having Sherlock as a roommate.

Sherlock rubbed his thigh between John's legs, putting pressure on his cock. He was already achingly hard, and moaned loudly into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock broke away and took John's hand, leading him to the bedroom and playing with the hem of his shirt. 

"You are amazing." He whispered before pulling the shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. 

John took a second to be embarrassed by the large scar on his shoulder before Sherlock licked it and moaned against his skin. 

"From the army." Sherlock murmured. It wasn't a question. 

John unbuttoned his jeans and slipped them, along with his pants, down his legs. He tried not to fall, pulling them over his shoes and refusing to stop kissing Sherlock. Sherlock slipped off his clothes and pulled away from John with a whimper. They both removed their shoes and socks as quickly as possible. Sherlock climbed onto the bed, reaching into the bedside table for lube and a condom and John huffed out a laugh. 

"Knew you'd be taking me home, eh?" He asked teasingly. 

"Wishful thinking." Sherlock replied. "Come here." 

John lay down next to Sherlock and recaptured his lips. He ran his hands up Sherlock's sides and scraped his short fingernails down his back. Sherlock moaned and pulled him close. 

"I don't really...I don't know how to go about this." Sherlock said nervously. 

"It's okay, we'll go slow." John said, settling on top of Sherlock and kissing him gently. "Is this...Is this your first time?" 

Sherlock blushed furiously and nodded. 

John kissed him again and grabbed the lube. He poured some into his hand and reached down to rub circles around his arsehole. 

"Oh!" He said as Sherlock ran his hands up and down his sides. 

"You're beautiful." He said. "God, you're beautiful." 

John pushed his finger in and stilled it, getting used to the sudden intrusion. Sherlock reached up and pulled him down, kissing and then licking into his mouth. John pushed in a second finger and moaned. He scissored them and added a third. 

John pulled back and opened the condom wrapper. He rolled it onto Sherlock's cock and lined it up with his entrance, already dripping with lube. 

"It's been a while since...since..." John muttered. 

Sherlock reached for his face and ran his thumb over his cheek. John closed his eyes and sank slowly down. The heat was a surprise. Sherlock had felt the heat of his first on his cock, but never this intense heat. He grunted and tried to stay still as John lowered himself more. 

"God! So tight!" He whimpered. 

John moaned as he was finally seated. He pulled up a little and then sank down. They moaned in unison. John pulled off again and sank back down, setting a slow rhythm and trying not to shout. Sherlock rolled his hips and John gasped. 

"I'm going to-I don't think I can last much longer!" Sherlock said shamefully. 

John pulled up and clenched as tight as he could as he slid back down. 

"Come!" He shouted. 

Sherlock shook and came hard up into John's tight hole. John fisted his cock roughly and came, cursing and shaking. He slumped to Sherlock's side and wrapped his arms around him. Sherlock reached for the shirt on the edge of the bed and cleaned John off. 

"Was that...was that okay?" He asked quietly. 

John chuckled. "That," He said "was fucking brilliant!" 

Sherlock smiled and pulled John closer. 

After a few moments the reality of the night sank in and John started to breathe heavily. Sherlock knew he was approaching a panic attack and sat him up, running to the kitchen for a glass of water. 

"What's wrong?" He asked desperately. 

"I've got...I've got nowhere to go." John croaked, trying to hold back tears. 

"Shh..." Sherlock whispered, rubbing his hands up John's back. "Stay here. I've got an empty bedroom upstairs if you prefer. Just...don't leave." 

John handed Sherlock the now empty glass and lay back down on the bed. "You don't mean that." He whispered. 

"I've never meant anything this much." Sherlock said. 

John sighed and closed his eyes.


	12. I Do Not Know Any Other Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

John opened his eyes slowly, reaching out for his phone. It wasn't close enough. Why wasn't it close enough? He was sure he'd...oh. He wasn't home. Shit. 

He blinked at the ceiling and rolled over. Sherlock wasn't in bed next to him. He scooted over and grabbed his phone, noting it was an hour before his alarm was to go off. Oh well, might as well get up. 

He stretched and got out of bed, noting that he was in a pair of pajama trousers that were much too long for his legs, but had been rolled up. He smiled a little at the thought of Sherlock dressing him in his sleep. He opened the door to the kitchen and saw the man sitting on the couch on his laptop. He was clicking away and looked deep in thought. 

John cleared his throat and Sherlock looked up. "Tea?" He asked. 

"Upper right cabinet." Sherlock replied. 

John opened the cabinet and pulled the tin out carefully. He had to stand on his tiptoe to reach it. He filled the kettle and turned on the stove top, placing it on a burner and opening the fridge to find a fresh carton of milk. 

"Do you want a cup?" He asked. 

"Hmm."Sherlock agreed. 

"And toast?" He added. 

Sherlock frowned and he chuckled. "Alright, no toast." 

He found two mugs and stood comfortably while the water warmed. When the kettle whistled he took it off and poured hot water into the two mugs. 

"Sugar, no milk." Sherlock murmured. 

John brought him his cup and looked around, not sure where he should sit. 

Sherlock pointed to one of the chairs and John sat down. He closed the laptop and eyed John carefully. 

"That's your seat. The back is high, which will help your shoulder, and it's lower to the ground. That should help your intermittent limp. You can sit on the couch if you'd like, of course, but that seat will be more comfortable." Sherlock said quickly. 

John smiled "Anything else I should know?" 

"I filled the fridge. I don't usually shop, but I've been doing it more regularly. You can make me lunch, " He said, looking away nervously, "If you're amenable." 

John set his cup down and went to kneel in front of Sherlock. He rested his head in Sherlock's lap and the younger man gasped. John stayed there for a while, breathing deeply and willing himself not to break down. 

"So you're...not leaving?" Sherlock asked at length, voice choked. 

"No." John replied. "No, I don't think I will." 

He got up and kissed Sherlock gently before sitting back in his chair and sipping his tea. 

They sat in comfortable silence for a long time, and when John got up to put the cups in the sink Sherlock followed. He touched his shoulder almost shyly and John smiled up at him. 

"Wanna take a shower?" He asked. 

Sherlock nodded and led him to the bathroom. He turned the tap and when it was finally warm they both stripped and got in. Sherlock stood nervously with his hands at his side and John grabbed the soap. He kissed Sherlock again and turned him around. 

He picked up the loofah and soaped up Sherlock's back, nudging him to raise his hands so he could wash his underarms. When he went to his knees to clean Sherlock's legs the man whimpered. He kissed the back on his knee and cleaned between his buttocks, reaching around and finding Sherlock already hard. Sherlock's legs almost gave way. 

John stood and pressed up against Sherlock's back. Sherlock drew in a quick breath through his nose and groaned when John gripped his cock gently. 

"Tell me if it's too much." He whispered. 

Sherlock nodded and John began to stroke him, running his thumb across the head of his cock every other time. Sherlock started to shake as John rutted up against his thigh. He let out little 'oh's and 'ah's. 

John sped up and tightened his grip, feeling Sherlock shake more violently. "I'm-I'm going to-" 

"Come." John whispered. 

Sherlock planted his hands against the tiles and came hard, shouting John's name and painting the wall with his come. John pushed up against his thigh three more times and came, coating his leg with his own come and resting his head against him. 

"Guess I'll have to clean you again." He said. 

Sherlock chuckled and they both started to giggle. John stood up at length and Sherlock turned to kiss him. John ran his fingers into his damp curls and cupped his head. 

They finally broke and John cleaned Sherlock's leg and let the taller man take over. Sherlock scrubbed up his back, trying to copy what John had done, having never showered with anyone before. When they were both clean they dried off and John picked his clothes off the floor. Sherlock brushed his teeth and put on deodorant the held them out the door for John. 

"I'll come with you tonight. To pick up some of your things." Sherlock said. 

John nodded and brushed his teeth. 

\-----

Sherlock was dressed and back on his computer when John walked into the kitchen. He smiled and opened the fridge, grabbing a few items and putting together a lunch for the other man. He made a large sandwich and a baggie of pickles and peppers. He went through the pantry and found a bag of crisps and some napkins. 

While Sherlock was engrossed in his research John grabbed a piece of paper and a pen from the desk and jotted something down, folding the note and setting it in the lunchbox. 

"I've gotta go, long day at the clinic. Will you walk with me to the tube?" John asked. 

Sherlock grunted out a yes and got up, stretching cat-like and rolling his shoulders. He grabbed his scarf and put on his coat. John watched as he went to the kitchen and pulled a dark blue lunchbox from the back of the fridge. 

"I made you lunch, if you still want it." John said. 

Sherlock turned and frowned slightly. "This is for you." He said quietly. 

John smiled, shocked, and kissed him. 

\-----

When they got to the station Sherlock squeezed his hand and walked down the stairs. John got a text message from an unfamiliar number just as Sherlock was out of sight. 

HAVE A GOOD DAY. SEE YOU AT DINNER.   
SH

John smiled and typed a message back. 

YOU TOO.   
JW

\-----

At lunchtime Sherlock walked by Michael's desk to find him eating one of the pathetic sandwiches that came from the vending machine. He didn't say anything. 

He sat at his desk and opened his lunch, glad that he'd got three kinds of lunch meat and multiple mustards for the flat. John had made a fantastic sandwich, and Sherlock ate all of it before wiping his hands and opening the note. 

'Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place. - Zora Neale Hurston'

\-----

Across town John sat down with the new lunchbox in the lounge and opened it slowly. One of the techs came up behind him and squealed. 

"Finally got the husband to make you lunch?" She asked. 

"No, it's...it's someone else." John murmured. 

"About time you left that arsehole." She said as she walked away. 

Inside was some gazpacho and tortilla chips with guacamole. Where Sherlock found avocados this time of year John didn't know. He took out the soup and chips and opened the small note under them. 

' I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand up on my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep you close your eyes. - Pablo Neruda'

John's hand shook as he slipped the note in his pocket.


	13. I Thought You Were Watching The Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miscommunication, and a fantastic quote from our very own cranium.

That night when Sherlock got home John was already making them food. He'd texted earlier to say he'd had a short day and to inquire about where he might find a key. Sherlock could smell the stew from downstairs. The scent seemed to pull him up to the the flat. Beautiful. 

John was chopping up vegetables and doing something quite interesting. It seemed John liked to talk to himself. Sherlock stood silently in the door way and watched. 

"Carrots. Carrots! Fuck, I love carrots. Wonder if Sherlock likes carrots. When was the last time I put carrots in his meal? Oh, pickled carrots. People who like pickled carrots might not like unpickled carrots. Unpickled, that's an odd word. UNpickled, unPIckled, unpickLED. Pick-led. Ha. Strange word, that."

"Do you always do a running commentary for the vegetables?" Sherlock said from the door.

John jumped and turned, cheeks turning a bright shade of pink. 

"Sorry. Um-" He began. 

"No it's...fine." Sherlock said with a small smile. 

John smiled and turned back to the counter. He was surprised when Sherlock came up next to him and watched his hands carefully. 

"How was your day?" John asked, not sure what to expect as he hadn't asked anyone that in a long time and got an answer. 

"Horrible." Sherlock said. 

John turned, concerned. 

"Oh, don't worry, no more horrible than normal. People at work are more concerned about trivial interpersonal relationships than the actual work. It's amazing that anything gets done." Sherlock said. 

John huffed a laugh and started to cut up a potato. 

"I know exactly what you mean. Sometimes I wonder if people really show up to work, or just to gossip." He said. 

Sherlock hummed his agreement and popped a piece of carrot into his mouth, grinning teasingly at John. The older man just shrugged his shoulders. 

Sherlock walked to the sitting room and sat in the chair facing the kitchen, wanting for some reason to keep an eye on John. He wasn't going to dissappear, but knowing it and feeling it were two completely different things. He opened his laptop and then closed it abruptly. He stood and looked around. 

"You cleaned. Did you clean? Why did you clean?" He said quickly. 

"Oh, yeah, just tidied a bit, you know. All the science equipment is in cabinets in here, all the books have been shelved and the files are in a box next to the desk. Hope you don't mind." John said without looking up. 

"No, that's, that's good." Sherlock replied. 

John smiled to himself, figuring that was Sherlock's way of praising him. He hadn't been praised for doing mundane things around the flat for a long time. It was nice to be appreciated. 

Sherlock sat back down and opened the laptop back up. He did some research he'd been wanting to do for a while as John continued to cook. When he finally looked up John was across from him reading a book and there was a cup of tea in front of him. 

"Do that often?" John asked. 

"What?" Sherlock asked, sipping the tea carefully. 

"Go off in your head and leave the rest of us behind." John teased. 

Sherlock looked confused for a second. 

"Oh, yes, mind palace. It's a mental trick for storing memories and information that facilitates quick, accurate recovery of such data. I sometimes don't talk for days." Sherlock said. 

"Noted." John said with a gentle smile. 

Noted? Noted? Sherlock just told him that he retreated into his own mind for days at a time and his only response was 'noted'. People were never so calm about his idiosyncrasies. Something about ignoring people being rude, as if he had a choice. Noted. Interesting. 

\-----

A few hours later dinner was served. Sherlock sat and John spooned him a large bowl, setting it in front of him along with some sourdough bread. Sherlock began eating right away, making little satisfied noises. John smiled and sat down himself, dipping some bread in the stew and taking a bite. 

After a few minutes John cleared his throat and licked his lips nervously. Sherlock looked up, trying to see what was wrong. 

"You're nervous about picking up some of your things. You think I don't really want to go with you. You're wrong." Sherlock said, getting back to his food. 

"Do you read minds?" John asked playfully. 

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "Everything you were about to tell me was written in your brow and the way you lick your lips when you're nervous. You were also playing with the cuffs of your shirt. Classic sign of stress. Classic." 

"Brilliant. I know I've said it before, but you're bloody brilliant." John replied. 

Sherlock looked taken aback, and John just smiled. 

\-----

After dinner the two men took a cab to John's flat. Luckily Michael was out, probably getting shit faced. They packed two of John's old army duffles and made their way home. 

In the cab on the way back Sherlock let his fingers brush against John's. He didn't want to force him to take his hand, just let him know it was an option. John took his hand and twined their fingers together. It was like fireworks were going off in Sherlock's stomach. It was a bit uncomfortable, but he didn't want it to stop. 

They brought John's things up to the flat and John stood in the entry way nervously. 

"Should I, um, put this stuff upstairs?" He asked. 

Sherlock, who couldn't tell whether John WANTED to put his things upstairs or wanted to be told he didn't need to, floundered. John was standing closer to the stairs than the kitchen which led to the bedroom, so he supposed that meant John wanted his own room. 

"Sure, upstairs." He said, heart breaking. 

John, who also felt like he might be sick all over his own bloody shoes, did so. He opened the door to the bedroom and lay his things on the bed. The room was small but tidy. He took a moment to wonder why Sherlock hadnt dusted if he wanted John to stay up there, and then remembered dusting probably didn't cross his mind. 

John came down the stairs, and feeling like he desperately needed to flee the scene of his ultimate disappointment, put on his jacket. 

"I'm gonna go to the pub for a bit. You don't have to wait up." He said quickly turning and walking down the stairs. 

Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs, crushed and confused. He quickly went to his mind palace and opened the door to the room named John. He looked at everything he'd ever said to John, every note they'd ever exchanged. He went over every touch they'd ever shared, empirically of course, and disected it. Last night, their first time together. 

Stupid! Stupid! John had wanted to fuck him, it was obvious. He lay Sherlock on the bed underneath him, and then must have felt guilty when Sherlock said he was a virgin. He knew he should have lied. Of all the gay pornos he'd seen, and he'd done his research, the preferred position was the person being penetrated under the one doing the penetration. 

Sure there were the 'oh, yeah, ride me' flicks and the 'let's sandwich you between two guys', but it was usually either the missionary position or the 'doggy style' (a phrase which disturbed him on many levels). 

John had made it clear that he wanted to penetrate Sherlock and the lust and nervous energy had fogged his mind so much he forgot everything he had learned. And now he had what? A flatmate? A flatmate he was inexorably in love with. A flatmate so unobtrusively breathtaking that Sherlock's heart beat in his throat as others walked by unaware. 

So that was it. Buggered it up completely. Fantastic. Well, if John was going to go have a drink he might as well have a bourbon. Just one. 

\-----

Four bourbons and two hours later John walked dejectedly up the stairs to 221b. He took off his coat and shoes and went to make a cuppa. 

"You're not drunk!" Sherlock slurred. 

John spun to see him laying across the coffee table. 

"No, I, I, um, just walked around for a bit...are, are you alright?" John asked, moving closer. 

"No. I'm fucking broken. Can't you see the cracks? I'm pieces, little bitty small, bitty..." Sherlock replied. 

John went to the sink and filled a glass with water. He helped Sherlock into his chair and knelt at his feet, proffering the cup and looking worried.  
"Sherlock, are you drunk?" He asked. 

"You were supposed to be drunk too. You cheated!" He said between gulps. 

"Hey, let's get you to bed." John said, lifting Sherlock and walking him towards their...his...bedroom. 

He lay the man on the bed and helped him out of his clothes before getting a paracetamol and another glass of water. He helped Sherlock take the pill with marginal success and wiped the spilled water off his chest with a rag. He was about to walk away when Sherlock grabbed his wrist. 

"I shouldn't have, um, shouldn't have told you I was a virgin. Or I shoulda told you before we met. Or I shoulda left you alone." He mumbled. 

John sat on the bed and stared at him, trying to make sense of Sherlock's words. Why would he think John wouldn't have wanted him if he was a virgin? He would want Sherlock any way he could have him. There was a sort of cerebralromance between them, okay, that's not a word, but what ever that translates to. John had fallen in love with the mind and been, in all honesty, pleasantly surprised at the body. 

"Sherlock, why do you think I didn't want you to be a virgin?" John asked carefully. 

"Because I'm obviously shite in bed. Obvious." Sherlock replied. 

"You aren't, not at all. Why would you think that?" John asked, feeling a kind of sick heat in his stomach. 

"Because you wanna live upstairs, an' not touch me, an' not be with me." Sherlock said angrily. 

"I don't want to live upstairs! I want to be here with you, I just thought..." John said, trailing off. 

He felt like he was in one of those weird sitcom situations where the characters say 'I thought you were watching the dog' 'I thought you were watching the dog', and then in frightened unison 'who's watching the dog?'. He didn't know life could be so completely cliché. 

"Don't leave, John, don't leave. I'll do anything you want, just don't leave." Sherlock begged, moving closer and looking deeply into John's eyes. 

John smiled sadly. "I'm not leaving, you berk, and I don't want you to ever promise me something you're not comfortable with to keep me..." 

Sherlock was snoring softly, curling around John's sitting body. Well, that went well.


	14. Glorious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn. Poooooooorn. Porn.

Sherlock woke in the morning around five, mouth dry and head pounding. He rolled over and felt as though his brain was not only smaller, but no longer sufficiently suspended in his skull. It bounced painfully against the walls every time he moved. 

When he did sit up he looked fondly (though painfully) down at John. He was laying on his back, eyes closed, one arm tucked under his head. His shirt had rucked up a bit during the night, revealing his stomach, and Sherlock found himself kissing it. He ran his lips over the soft skin and marveled at the warmth the small man emitted. He kissed and then licked into John's navel, causing the man to squirm and snore softly. He tasted sweet with just a touch of salt. 

Sherlock pressed his cheek against John's belly and closed his eyes. The shallow content breathing sent Sherlock back to sleep, and when he woke again it was light out. 

John smiled down at him and carded his fingers through Sherlock's silky curls. Sherlock snorted in a breath and sat up quickly, horrified at the small trail of saliva extending from his mouth to John's stomach. He batted it away like a cat and looked at John quizzically. 

"Good morning to you too." John said, smiling so genuinely Sherlock died. 

Okay, so he didn't die, but his chest contracted and his heart beat faster, and he felt small and infinitely large at the same time. People have died from less, he's sure. 

"Good, good morning." He said once he had his breath back. 

"You're beautiful when you sleep. You don't look suspicious or worried. I like it." John said quietly, reaching out to touch Sherlock's shoulder. 

Sherlock shut his eyes and sighed at the feel of those rough fingers carresing his skin. John leaned closer and breathed against Sherlock's skin. It tickled his neck and sent quick tendrils of heat straight to his cock. He shifted slightly and let John kiss him. The kisses were feather light at first, getting more intense as John moved to his lips. 

"Stop!" Sherlock said, backing away. 

John looked worried. Why was John worried? John worried was more wonderful than anything he'd ever seen. John worried was slightly better than John happy, there was such care in those eyes. Such emotion. Sherlock took a second to remind himself that making people you cared for worried to study their expressions was strictly forbidden. Strictly. 

"Let me, um, brush my teeth." He said, slipping from the bed. 

John started to stand too and Sherlock spun, sticking his hand out. 

"No. I. I want to taste sleep on you." He said. 

John chuckled and sat back down. He waited patiently for Sherlock to come back, and when he did he kissed him roughly. Sherlock let himself be pushed back onto the bed and mounted. John ran his hands up Sherlock's sides and drew back to kiss his chest. 

He sucked a nipple into his mouth and moaned against the skin when Sherlock drew in a quick breath. He tongued the hardened nub and bit down gently. 

"Oh!" Sherlock said, bucking from the bed. 

John reached to tweak the other and Sherlock started to shake. 

"Thats-oh!" He gasped. "Oh!" 

John rubbed himself down on Sherlock's cock and smiled as he spit out a litany of curse words. Sherlock, it turned out, was extremely sensitive. He licked downwards, slipping down the bed and moving closer to Sherlock's straining prick. He pulled on the band of Sherlock's pants and looked under it. 

Sherlock felt exposed. More exposed than he'd ever felt in his life. No one had ever been interested in him like this. The idea of John looking excitedly at a piece of flesh he'd been carrying with him his while life astounded him. The idea of John finding him attractive, beautiful, was...strange. He knew himself to be considered fairly handsome by today's standards, but that was it. He'd been hit on before, but no one had ever looked at him with awe. He wondered if perhaps John was in on some giant joke. 

People did that, didn't they? Slept with other people to get back at their lovers. They did it on a regular basis of you believed the telly. Sex, as Sherlock had always seen it, was a bargaining chip. It was something one used to get things. It could, in essence, be exchanged for goods and services just like money. 

So why was it that when John looked at him it seemed like he only wanted Sherlock? Not some secondary goal, but Sherlock alone. 

And why again was it that Sherlock only cared about making John happy so that he could continue to have his company. He wanted to talk to John. He wanted to look at John. He wanted to taste and monitor and fuck, and suck and lick and breathe unimpeded John John John John John

"John! John! John!" Sherlock began shouting. 

John pulled his tongue quickly away from Sherlock's cock and slipped off his pants, tossing then to the side and settling between Sherlock's legs. 

Sherlock's breath was coming in little puffs, and had taken on a sort of wheezing sound that made John smile. John loved the idea of this brilliant man, who could by all outwards signs do everything himself, falling apart under his tongue. He gripped the base of Sherlock's cock and looked up at him. 

His face, neck and upper chest had taken on a rosy glow, lit gently by the rising sun through the curtains. His eyes were wide and his mouth formed a perfect surprised oh. John almost couldn't look away. 

"I'm going to suck you now." He said before licking a fat stripe up the side of that lovely cock. 

And it was lovely. Lovely and long and thick and just as responsive as that rest of the gorgeous bastard. He spoke that sentence and it twitched in his hand, a single drop of pearlescent precome dripping lazily from the slit. More flooded the head when John licked up the shaft, and now he gathered it up with his tongue. 

Sherlock shivered as John let the head pop through the tight ring of his lips and into the heat of his mouth. If he thought he'd been dying before Sherlock was now glancing around for Saint Peter. 

John pushed down and Sherlock felt the head of his cock press into his throat. Constricted there it leaked more, and Sherlock knew he couldn't last much longer. John pulled up and then set of a quick rhythm, tightening his lips on the way down and sucking on the way up. It took ten seconds after the first suck for Sherlock to start shouting. 

"It's!! I'm going to!" He hollered. 

John pulled off and pumped his hand climbing to lick into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock, eyes clenched tight, let him take what he wanted. John broke the kiss and pulled gently on his hair. 

"Come." He whispered. 

Sherlock nodded and came between them. He soaked his own stomach and John's hand as John stroked him through the aftershocks. He felt so utterly calm. Like the world could burn to the ground and he would just watch the glow from afar. Glorious.


	15. A Little Harder Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck. Fuuuuuuck.

John got up quietly and walked to the bathroom to retrieve a wet flannel and a glass of water for Sherlock. When he returned Sherlock was laying comfortably on his back and just closing his eyes. John smiled and climbed onto the bed. 

"You don't get to go back to sleep." John said teasingly. 

Oh, of course. Sherlock had got off, so now he was expected to get John off. Obvious. Sherlock sat up and looked at John, tension winding its way up his back. 

"What do you want me to do?" He asked, voice a sad type of false confident. 

John knelt in front of him and kissed his cheek. It was clear that Sherlock was worried. He began cleaning Sherlock off with the warm wet flannel. 

"I don't want you to do anything. I just meant that it's time to get up and get ready for work." John said. 

"Oh." Sherlock replied, laying back down and relaxing into the sheets. 

John set the water and flannel aside and lay next to Sherlock, wrapping his arm around his waist and getting as close as he could. 

"This isn't tit for tat, you know. It's not like if we don't both get off at the same time one of us owes the other. You know I'm doing this because I want to, right? It's not because I'm trying to get something out of you." John said gently. 

"I've never, er, I don't really know how any of this works." Sherlock said, embarrassed. 

John picked up his mobile and texted a number. He got a reply back almost instantly. He set it aside and lay back on the bed. 

"I'm taking the day off. I suggest you do the same."  John said. 

"A-a-alright." Sherlock replied. 

"Do you need to call in?" John asked with a gentle smile. 

"Oh, um. In an hour I suppose." Sherlock replied warily. 

"So let's talk about this. What we have. You've never been in a relationship with anyone before?" As John asked Sherlock that he ran his hand down Sherlock's side. 

Sherlock shivered gently. 

"I um, I had someone I dated for a while in uni, but we never did, um, anything. We weren't close." Sherlock said uncomfortably. 

"Okay. Can I tell you what I want?" John asked. 

Sherlock nodded and looked away, more nervous in that second than he'd ever been in his life. 

"I want this to be exclusive. I only want to be with you. I want to be able to show you off. I'm seeing my barrister today. She's writing up divorce papers. They site in it that we haven't slept in the same bed for months and that we haven't, um, well, she says there's a good chance it'll go smoothly. When it's over. When I'm single I want to be your partner, boyfriend, whatever awkward word you'd like. I want it to be us." 

When Sherlock didn't respond John got worried. "Is that, is that something you'd like?"  He asked. 

Sherlock grabbed John by the back of the neck and pulled him close. He kissed him hard and dug his fingers into John's shoulder. John sighed happily and let Sherlock lick into his mouth. When Sherlock realised he wasn't going anywhere his motions slowed. He licked gently, tongue dancing against John's. 

John ran his hand down Sherlock's back and felt Sherlock sigh into his mouth. He pulled away and Sherlock rested his head on his shoulder. 

"I want to be your...significant other." Sherlock whispered. 

"Yeah. Sounds good to me." John replied. 

\-----

After Sherlock had called in sick to work John beckoned him into the loo and started the tap in the tub. He squeezed some toothpaste onto his toothbrush and brushed his teeth while Sherlock undressed. 

It didn't occur to John to be embarrassed by his own body. After years of football locker rooms, the army and being married he had a lowered sense of modesty. Sherlock on the other hand, shifted nervously on his feet. John rinsed his mouth and turned the faucet so the shower came on. 

"God, you're lovely." He said as Sherlock stepped into the tub gingerly. 

Sherlock turned, a flush creeping up his chest and threatening to take over his cheeks. 

"Has no one ever told you that?" John asked, trying not to grin at the ridiculous nature of it. 

The idea that Sherlock Holmes, gorgeous beyond any standard, would be shy sent a shock of arousal through John. He felt alight and faint with it. He wanted to taste him. Now. 

"Not...not really. My, um, flings at uni were...short lived and somewhat one-sided. I'm not one for hyperbole, so I assume I never expected it." Sherlock said, unable to look John in the eye. 

John stepped into the tub and gripped Sherlock's hips, pulling him close to suck low on his neck. Sherlock melted against him and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. He hissed as John sucked harder, then drew back to appraise the purple-red mark he'd left just above the collar bone.   
"And that's a hikey. Can't tell you how many times I tried to hide one from my parents. Bit of a right of passage with teenagers." John said with a sloppy grin. 

Sherlock shivered as he ran his fingers over the mark. It felt like a handshake, like an agreement: 'yes, I am yours, and you are mine'. It felt less permanent than the mark's reality. Sherlock suddenly felt desperate for something more, something he could keep with him always. 

John cocked his head to the side and looked at Sherlock, the sloppy grin he was wearing turning gentle. He always loved watching the wheels turn in Sherlock's mind. He wondered if the man knew that he was giving John that little peek into his world. He wished he could hear what was going on inside that formidable mind of his. 

Sherlock seemed to surface and ran his fingers over John's shoulder. He looked as though he was figuring out the exact texture of the skin there, or the rate at which the goose flesh rose after his fingers. 

"Could I?" Sherlock said, clearing his throat. "Could I try?" 

John nodded and Sherlock bent to kiss at his shoulder. He licked gently at the water that looked like dew covering the skin and then sucked gently. John tried not to moan out loud, and was mildly successful. Sherlock looked up surprised. 

"That's...that's good." John stammered. "A little harder now." 

Sherlock latched back on and held John steady, one hand on his hip, the other on his opposite shoulder. He did as John asked, sucking the skin between his lips, and noticed John's reaction. It was exotic and new to have someone so affected (well positively, anyhow) by his actions. He felt power surge through him and bit down. 

John grunted and thrust his hips forward. Sherlock took that to be a good sign and sucked roughly once more before standing back up. 

The mark he'd left was almost inconsequential, but John's reaction was not. He looked dazed, like he was drifting off on some medically induced mental hiatus. His eyes were barely open, and his lips slightly parted. He was wholly arousing at that point. Sherlock took a steadying breath and then moved in. 

He gripped John harder and pulled him up close against his body. They both hissed as their cocks brushed against each other. Sherlock, deciding that if not now then never, took charge. He reached down and gripped their pricks in one large hand and started stroking. 

"John! John, that's...that's...oh, that's nice." Sherlock mumbled. 

John thrust his hips and they moaned in unison. 

"Is this...Is this good?" Sherlock asked, voice and body making it clear that it was good, quite good, for him. 

"God, yes. Fucking lovely! Fuck! God I can't wait to have that cock in me again! Fuck! Fucking lovely cock!" John said, verbal skills devolving as he got closer to climax. 

Getting the reaction he wanted spurred a brand of courage in Sherlock that he rarely felt. He sucked on his middle finger and then reached around to rub it at John's arsehole. John whimpered and thrust his hips roughly. Success! He pushed gently while rubbing in circles and felt John's hole soften and then envelope his fingertip. 

John moaned loudly and let his head fall back, hips moving in stuttering quickness as the rest of his body decided to relax. Sherlock pushed his finger in a bit deeper and tightened his grip on their pricks. John made a sound not unlike a tire losing air and was suddenly spurting come all over Sherlock and his own chest. 

His eyes had slid shut and Sherlock had to remove his finger to wrap his arm around John's waist so that the older man didn't slip to his knees. He stroked himself a few more times and came watching John's chest heave. What a wonderful sight.


	16. Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter because I've had a ridiculously busy horrid day. I love you guys.

Sherlock let John rest against the wall while he washed him, leaving kisses up and down his neck and chest. By the time they were both rinsed John had come back to himself and was fairly coherent. 

"I've had more sex in the last three days than I have in the last eight months." He chuckled. 

"I've had more sex in the last three days than in my whole life." Sherlock said under his breath. 

John kissed his shoulder and had him sit on the bed so he could dry his hair for him. Sherlock sighed happily as John ran the towel through his curls. When he was done John climbed into Sherlock's lap and rested his head on his shoulder. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and once again felt like his heart might either burst or stop working from over use. 

"It's been forever since someone's cared about me." John whispered. 

"Another reason to hate the human race. Bunch of idiots to pass you up. Oblivious." Sherlock whispered. 

Rain started to patter against the window and John gripped Sherlock tighter. 

"Can we just stay like this forever?" He asked. 

"Sleep is for the weak." Sherlock dead panned. 

\-----

After snuggling like a desperate teenagers for quite a while John got up to make them brunch. It was unreal walking around the flat in his pants with the love of his life. It seemed like a fantastical alternate reality. He'd gone without affection and care for so long he was giddy at it. 

Sherlock did something almost noxious at the kitchen table while John cooked and poured them both some orange juice. Sherlock drank his without looking up and John chuckled at his one track mind. 

A lot of the time geniuses need someone to take care of the mundane for them. John had become particularly good at it by working with some of the best veterinary surgeons in the field at his low cost spay/neuter clinic once a month. He often times had to bring the specialists water and remind them to take a break to eat. 

John found a great deal of pride in doing the basics for these spectacular people. He was built to help, and always felt most comfortable while doing so. He just wanted to be good. Not just do good, but be good. What he didn't realise was that he didn't actually have a choice. He was good, already inherently good, and didn't have to try. 

When the food was ready John set a plate in front of Sherlock and put a fork directly in his hand. He ate on autopilot for a few seconds before looking up at John with surprise coloring his face. 

"This is...fantastic." He said. 

John blushed a bit and looked down at his plate. 

"Just a little something." He said. 

"Modesty may suit you, but it isn't necessary." Sherlock replied around a mouth full of poached egg with fennel and red onion. 

John's blush reached the tips of his ears as Sherlock continued to eat, making almost erotic sounds with every bite. He started in on the cremini with hen of the woods and king trumpet mushrooms and wondered when John had managed to make it to the kind of market that sold such exotic ingredients. 

"Little place down the street from my work run by an old Italian man. Always has fresh vegetables, but you never know what's going to be there. It's like going on a treasure hunt, you never know what you're going to find but it's always worth the trip." John said, reading Sherlock's mind. 

Reading Sherlock's mind? Peculiar. No one ever read Sherlock's mind. John seemed to be effortlessly in sync with Sherlock. He'd never met someone who slipped so perfectly into his life. He had a feeling this might just last forever.


	17. Almost Unique

John had always harbored the idea that he was a uniquely romantic man. Sherlock had always harbored the idea that he was a uniquely clever person. They were both wrong, but perhaps only in the fact that their uniqueness overlapped. Quite beautifully. 

Sherlock was going to the store to pick up a few things for an experiment he was doing on the flammability of household products. The same products that claimed to be flame resistant, in fact. He went through the isles picking up the 'ingredients' for his latest foray into destruction and quickly had his arms full. 

He should have got a basket, but he hated shopping so much that just walking through the fingerprint covered, out of date, ready to malfunction electric doors was enough to make him forget even the basics. It wasn't that he was agoraphobic necessarily, but rather disturbed by all of the ill fitting clothes that those around him wore, and the ridiculous way stores were organized. If it were up to him they would be organized by a type of Dewey decimal-like system that would exclude complete imbiciles from finding what they needed easily. He never claimed to be a good man. 

He dumped the items on the conveyor belt, absently wondering what kind of bodily fluids may show up under a black light on the various surfaces, and frowned at the check out girl. 

"Haven't seen you around here before." She chirped. 

"I only have sex with men." He replied. 

Her cheeks grew rosy and she dropped her eyes, trying to focus on the job at hand. When she had rung everything up properly Sherlock reached into his back pocket for his wallet. Out with it came a small piece of paper. His heart did little cartwheels in his chest and he smiled. He handed her the cash and walked quickly from the store so he could read the note in private. He ducked into an alley and opened it. 

"My soul comes from better worlds and I have an incurable homesickness of the stars. - Nikos Kazantzakis"

If he'd known what it felt like to jump from a plane he might have drawn comparisons, but because he didn't he simply closed his eyes and breathed deeply. John. Almost uniquely romantic. 

\-----

Across town John was leaving his meeting with his barrister (which went well but made him feel ill none the less), and stopping to pick up a newspaper. He reached into his pocket and found several coins and a small square of paper. Sherlock must have put it there. Sherlock, almost uniquely clever. 

"So I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you. - Paulo Coelho"

John folded the paper and stuck it back in his pocket, smiling to himself and only noticing he was walking the wrong way after three blocks.


	18. You Flatter

When John got home, (yes, it's home now) he found Sherlock eagerly awaiting him on the steps. He blushed and gripped his hand, feeling lucky that he could whenever he wanted. Sherlock pulled him close and kissed his neck. 

"I got your note." He whispered.

John swallowed audibly. "Yeah, got yours too." 

Sherlock took the paper from John and set it aside as he walked him into the foyer. John scrunched up his nose and looked around. 

"What's that smell?" He asked. 

"Science. Come to bed." Sherlock answered, already pulling John to the bedroom. 

"Eager, are we?" John chuckled. 

"I need you inside me." Sherlock growled. 

"Jesus." John whimpered. 

Sherlock closed the door behind him and started removing John's clothes, licking each newly revealed bit of skin. He let John's shirt fall to the floor and dropped to his knees. Fuck, he looked good in that position. He unbuttoned John's trousers and...

There was a banging on the flat door. Sherlock stood abruptly and John gathered his shirt up, looking horrified. The banging came again. 

"I know you're in there, quit fucking my husband and come to the bloody door!" Michael screamed. 

John felt like he might be sick. He knew this would happen. Michael was the kind of man that would let you borrow his pen even if he wasn't using it. To think he'd readily give up John was foolish. It had all been a fantasy. John felt the walls closing in on him as he dropped to the floor. 

Sherlock knelt beside him and cupped his face. "I'm going to talk to him, you stay here." 

John nodded absently and watched Sherlock leave the room. He should just move. Change his name or something. Find some way to just escape his reality for a while. A year. Maybe forever. 

Sherlock straightened his shirt cuffs and grabbed the closest hard object, wielding the small cutting board in front of him like a sword. He opened the door slowly to find Michael seething on the top step. 

"You bloody coward! You think I'll just give him up? Really?" Michael said angrily. 

"As far as I could tell, you didn't want him in the first place." Sherlock retorted. 

"Doesn't matter, he's MY husband. I don't know what kind of voodoo you've put on him, but he needs to come home." 

"He won't be your husband for long, and he's here of his own free will. I suggest you leave." Sherlock replied calmly, even as his insides were thrashing. 

"I'm not gonna just let you bugger my husband. My lawyer is gonna hear about this. I'll leave him with nothing!" Michael hollered. 

"If infidelity were to come into suspect I don't think you'd have a leg to stand on. How many affairs have you had in the last three years? Seven? And he doesn't want anything, take it. Leave now, or I'll call the police." Sherlock seethed. 

Before Michael could respond Sherlock shut the door in his face. He walked back to the bedroom, leaving the cutting board behind and ignoring the banging on the door. 

John was sat on the floor looking dazed. The fact that this man, this brave man, had been brought to his knees because of that neanderthal was ridiculous. He scooped John up from the floor and deposited him on the bed gently, sitting next to him and holding his hand. 

"This won't work. This was never going to work. I'm an idiot." John said, voice wavering. 

"I wouldn't go as far as idiot, per se." Sherlock replied. 

John elbowed him and found himself smiling. He rested against Sherlock and the younger man wrapped his arms around him. The banging on the door had stopped, and John was beginning to relax when his mobile rang. He reached for it and Sherlock pulled his hand away. 

"If it's him don't pick up." He said. 

John looked at the screen and sighed. It was Michael. He hit the end call button and set it down. It began ringing again and Sherlock picked it up and walked to the window. He glanced out and wasn't surprised to see Michael on the street below. He opened the window and tossed the phone out. 

"Oi! What did you do that for?" John asked, shock coloring his features. 

"I could have blocked his number, but that would take some time, and I want you to fuck me. Now." Sherlock replied. 

John, who knew he should be angry, found himself removing his shirt. Sherlock grinned at him and removed his trousers and pants. He pulled his shirt off and crawled onto the bed with that feline fluidity that John loved. He batted John's hands away and palmed his quickly forming erection through his jeans. 

"Oh, God!" John moaned. 

"You flatter." Sherlock replied, undoing the zip and pulling the jeans clean off. 

John would have chuckled if he weren't so incredibly turned on, but he was. Incredibly. Turned. On. Sherlock slid between his legs and lowered himself to suck at the head of John's cock through his cotton pants. His mouth was hot and wet and so fucking soft. Jesus. He sighed as Sherlock pushed his tongue against the slit. 

Sherlock pulled the elastic band down to reveal just the head and slipped his lips around it. He sucked gently and John let out another moan. It was quickly becoming too much and he was about to ask Sherlock to stop when the younger man turned over and opened his legs. 

The sight had a sort of narcotic effect. Sherlock, hard and dripping, presenting himself for John's pleasure. John nearly ripped his pants taking them off and got the lube and a condom out with shaking hands. He knelt between Sherlock's legs and set them aside. 

"You're sure?" He asked. 

Sherlock nodded. "It's not that I...I...haven't been penetrated. I've just, um never been with anyone." 

When John understood what Sherlock was saying his 'oh' turned into a groan. The though of Sherlock, on his back, thrusting something into himself to get off was overwhelming. John thought he could possibly use that for the rest of his life. His cock twitched at the thought and he had to shake himself to get back to the task at hand. 

"I'm going to, um, open you up a bit." John said nervously. 

Sherlock rolled his hips and John accidently dropped the lube. Sherlock grinned knowingly and John tried to remind himself to hold it against him later. He picked up the bottle and spread a good amount on his fingers, then rubbed gently at Sherlock's entrance. His finger slipped in almost instantly and it took John's breath away. 

Sherlock hummed and John pushed it further in. Sherlock tightened around him and then relaxed again. 

"More. More please, John." Sherlock begged. 

John pulled the finger out and then slipped two in. Sherlock was breathing hard and making little desperate noises. Little 'oh's and 'yes's that drove John crazy. He started to pump his fingers in an out, twisting them slightly and the noises Sherlock was making grew. When he inserted a third finger Sherlock gripped the sheets and bucked. 

"Okay?" John asked. 

"Please, please, I'm ready. Please." Sherlock cried. 

John nodded and pulled his fingers out. Sherlock's eyes opened and he stilled for a moment. His eyes, often so distant were immensely expressive. He felt his cock pulse with his heartbeat. 

"Please." Sherlock whispered. 

John cleared his throat, put on the condom and slicked up his cock. He held it at Sherlock's hole and pushed slowly in. He had to close his eyes. The combination of the heat and tightness along with the look in Sherlock's eyes was becoming too much. If he wanted to last any longer than three seconds he have to settle the hell down. 

When he was fully seated Sherlock wrapped his legs around his back and pulled him in just a bit more. They moaned in unison as they got that small bit closer. John breathed deeply and pulled out a little just to rock back in. 

"Oh, damn. Oh, God." Sherlock mumbled. 

John opened his eyes and Sherlock looked almost controlled by his ecstasy. His head was back and that beautiful neck was bared. John leaned down to lick up it and started to build up a slow rhythm. Sherlock wrapped his hands around John's biceps and dug his short fingernails into the skin there. 

"Harder." Sherlock whispered. 

John pulled out and pushed back in with a quick snap of his hips and grunted against his neck. 

"Yes!" Sherlock shouted. 

"Oh, you're tight! Fuck!" John exclaimed. 

"Harder!" Sherlock replied. 

John thrust deep and fast, feeling the beginnings of his orgasm tingling in his abdomen. 

"This how you like it? Rough?" John asked. "Is this how you fuck yourself on your toys?" 

"Yes, God yes!" 

"Good, here we go, come for me." John said, voice admirably even. 

Sherlock shouted and clamped down around him, spilling come all over their joined bodies. John sped up and slammed into him ten or so more times before he was swearing and spending himself deep inside the younger man. Sherlock's legs had dropped from his hips and he was boneless beneath him. 

A few seconds later John pulled out carefully and removed the condom. He got up on shaky legs and walked to the loo to toss it and get a wet flannel for Sherlock's chest and his stomach. 

"Water." Sherlock shouted from the bed. 

"Yes, your majesty." John replied with a smile. 

He went back to the bed and watched Sherlock sip the water carefully. As he cleaned the young man off he kissed his chest gently. He'd forgot all the stress of the day. Interesting.


	19. Touche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock deal with things on fire and general safety. Fluff. Just bloody fluff.

After resting for a few hours Sherlock got up and started buzzing around the flat. John began to smell that distinct burning tinge but couldn't be arsed to care. He stretched on the bed and closed his eyes again. He managed to fall asleep for another half hour before Sherlock was hollering his name. 

"Coming!" He hollered back. 

He opened the door to a large amount of smoke and shut it again to go open the window. He decided to go the other way around so as not to have the bedroom smell so horrid. When he made it to the kitchen he found the room nearly covered in detritus. 

"How, in the name of God, are the fire alarms not going off?" He asked, opening the other windows and looking for a fan to help expedite the process. 

"Threw those out years ago." Sherlock's said, swiping a gloved hand over his goggles and clearing away quite a bit of black dust. 

John chuckled, something that still surprised Sherlock, and shook his head. 

"Noxious experiments should take place upstairs. Pack the lot up and move, now." John said. 

Sherlock frowned. "I'm right in the middle of-" 

"The kitchen, astute observation, that. Now move!" John replied with a gentle smile. 

The combination of the smile and his strong tone confused Sherlock enough to get him to pack things up. He started to bring them upstairs and John heard him mumble under his breath. 

"I was right in the middle of an experiment."

John got a rag and started wiping down the walls and counters. How Sherlock thought it would be a good idea to test the flammability of ANYTHING in the kitchen was beyond him, but he knew better than to try to find an answer to that question. He'd been around enough geniuses to know that safety and propriety were never the first thing on their minds. 

Sherlock grumbled as he picked up the last of his things and John tugged him closer, running a clean rag over his goggles and then his cheek so he could kiss him. 

"I'm sure you have a safety mask. Use it." He said. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked away. Bloody scientists. 

\-----

When the kitchen and sitting room were clean and smelling a bit better John climbed the stairs and knocked cheerfully on the door. 

"Come in!" Sherlock said from the other side. 

John opened the door and smirked at the fact that Sherlock was indeed wearing a mask. 

"Going to the store for dinner makings. You need fresh air. Come on." He said. 

"But JOHN!" Sherlock began to whine. 

John raised an eyebrow and Sherlock's shoulders slumped. This man, this army man, was going to be the death of him. He'd never met someone that put up with so few of his antics. Well, that wasn't true, there was his mother. Bloody hell, he was dating his mother. 

"What's with the sour face, love?" John asked as they made it out onto the sidewalk. 

"You remind me of my mother." Sherlock said glumly. 

"Oh, handsome woman, I take it?" John teased. 

Sherlock sighed, attempting to appear put upon, and gripped John's hand. John smiled to himself and stored away the greatest compliment he'd ever received in a special place in his heart. Madness. 

\-----

When they made it to the store Sherlock gripped John's hand like a frightened child. John ran his thumb across Sherlock's knuckles and felt him relax a bit. He grabbed a basket and walked to the vegetable isle. 

"How do the even decide where to put things? Is there even a method? If there is, I can't see it. Bloody impossible to make any sense out of the whole thing. 'Let's put the carrots next to the celery' 'Why should we do that, Bob?' 'Because why the hell not!'." Sherlock rambled. 

He found himself getting a lot less wound up as he voiced his (completely ligitimate) concerns and told himself he'd do it more often. John smiled and nodded, putting things in the basket and making his way around the room. 

"I'm making lasagna tonight. Would you like meat in it?" He asked. 

"Putting 'ethnic food' together is offensive and idiotic." Sherlock mumbled as John grabbed noodles. 

"I'll take that as a no." John replied. 

When they had everything they needed, and Sherlock had grabbed one more item to destroy, they made their way to the checkout. Little did John know, they got the same checkout girl that Sherlock had seen earlier. Sherlock stood behind John and nodded emphatically at her. She looked quite horrified. 

Sherlock ran his card through before John could pay, something he saw as a sign of ownership over the situation and something John thought was just nice, and they took their things and left. The walk home was calmer than the walk there, and Sherlock felt like he could breathe again.   
"You really don't like shopping, do you?" John asked. 

Sherlock grumbled. 

"But you've been making lunch for Michael so he didn't suspect. And you filled the fridge before I moved in." He added. 

Sherlock shrugged and John felt a bit of warmth in his chest. 

"Thanks." He whispered. 

Sherlock grumbled a bit more. 

When they made it to the flat Sherlock dumped the bags of food on the floor and took his new, soon to be scorched, item upstairs. John brought everything into the kitchen and put a large pot of water on to boil. He hummed to himself while chopping vegetables and wondered if they should wait until tomorrow to get him a new phone. 

When the water boiled he lay the noodles in it and turned the burner down. He started the sauce in a big pan and once he'd had it going for a good ten minutes was ready to put everything together. The sauce, vegetables, cheese and noodles went into the casserole dish, layered deep and looking delicious. He turned the oven on and slipped it in, setting the alarm on his watch and sitting down to read for a while. 

He was fully engrossed in his book when Mrs Hudson yoohooed and walked in the door. 

"What is that magnificent smell? When I left this morning it was like death up here!" She said happily. 

John put his book down and stood quickly. She looked him up and down and smiled warmly. 

"I'm Mrs H, dearie. No wonder Sherlock's been in such a good mood!" She chirped. 

"I'm, um, John. John Watson. Good to meet you, ma'am." He said, shaking her hand. "I'm making lasagna, would you like to stay for dinner?" 

"Oh, I've got bridge club, but if you've got a bit left over you can leave it at my door!" She said, patting his arm. 

"It's a deal." He replied. 

"Oh, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock called from the top of the stairs. "You didn't happen to throw out those dead rats in the alley, did you?" 

Her eyes shot wide and she spun around quickly. "Sherlock Holmes, if you bring dead rats in from the alley and I find them I swear to god you'll be out on your arse!" 

He didn't say anything as she huffed and fled down the stairs. John chuckled and Sherlock shrugged slightly. The buzzer went off and John put on oven mitts to take the dish out. 

"I want some." Sherlock said, hopping down the stairs. 

"Hands off! You'll burn your mouth!" John said, physically blocking Sherlock from the food. 

When Sherlock tried to walk around him John hit him in the face with the baguette. 

"Hey, what the-" Sherlock began. 

John laughed and hit him again. Sherlock rushed forward and wrestled John to the ground. They rolled around for a second before starting to laugh uncontrollably. They settled with John straddling Sherlock and looking down on him fondly. Sherlock leaned up and kissed him gently on the lips. John smiled and returned the kiss. 

"It's not polite to hit people with bread, John." Sherlock said with a fake pout. 

"Who ever said I was polite?" John retorted. 

"Touche." Sherlock deadpanned. 

John got up and helped him to his feet. 

"Sit at the table, I'll cut you up some of the baguette." He said. 

Sherlock sat down and John unwrapped the bread and cut it into small slices. Sherlock took a piece and stuffed it unceremoniously into his mouth. John just smiled.


	20. Bloody Worth It

After dinner John did the washing up while Sherlock laid out a running commentary on the people walking the streets below. John laughed at his insights, which spurred him on, and scowled at him when he was particularly cruel. 

"You should never say that about a woman." John said. 

"That's ridiculous! I should be able to insult women exactly the way I insult men. Isn't that what feminism taught us?" Sherlock demanded. 

"It still amazes me when you manage to be horrible and right at the same time." John said with a small smile. 

"There isn't much that doesn't amaze you, John." Sherlock shot back. 

"I'm going to take that as a compliment." John said flatly. 

Sherlock shrugged and went to flop down on the couch. John rinsed his hands and dried them on a towel before grabbing the kettle and filling it. He clicked it on and got out two cups. 

"Tea?" He asked. 

"How much longer?" Sherlock queried. 

"Only a few minutes." John replied. 

"No, you misunderstand me. How much longer will you do this? Make me tea. Take my insults as compliments. Clean up after me." Sherlock demanded, sitting suddenly and looking at John with one of his patented searing stares. 

"You say that like I'm going out of my way. I was married for years, I do all those things because it's part of being with someone. The difference is that now I have you at the end of the day, not some arsehole who doesn't even think to question it. This is who I am, Sherlock, it's not going to change."

John walked to the sitting room and knelt next to the couch. 

"You make being who I am fun. As long as you're fine with me giving you a hard time I'm fine with everything that comes with this." He whispered against Sherlock's knuckles. 

Sherlock looked for a moment like he might cry, but the kettle buzzed and saved them from another emotional outpouring from the genius. He could only handle so much before he felt like sleeping. Emotional honesty wasn't easy for him. He'd been taught from a young age by his older brother that emotions got you in trouble. Emotions made for sticky situations, and he rarely had the energy to stick around for the inevitable clean up. 

John poured them both some hot water and brought the tea tray to the sitting room table. 

"Budge up." He said. 

Sherlock sat up and looked at John tentatively for a second before grabbing his cup and pouring in several sugars. John added a splash of milk to his and sat back. Sherlock blowed on the surface of his tea and watched John carefully as he picked up his book and started to read. He was reading just a bit slower than usual, which suggested that he knew Sherlock was watching him. 

It was interesting to Sherlock that John didn't mind him looking. He'd spent his entire childhood hearing people tell him that he shouldn't stare, that it was rude. Maybe that's why people were such idiots, they never learned how to properly observe. It got easier when he was an adult because people usually figured he was deranged and got out of his way. Scolding children is all well and good, but scolding a tall man in a dark coat was frowned upon by the general public. 

Sherlock was shaken from his thoughts when John pulled his cup from his hand. He looked confused for a second before noting John's empty cup on the tray. He had been in his mind palace a lot longer than he'd thought. John bent down and kissed him. 

He sat and watched as John went around the room straightening up. When he got to the desk and bent over Sherlock felt the telltale heat of arousal surge through his belly. He stood quickly and moved so seamlessly across the room that John jumped when he felt his hands on his hips. 

"Jesus!"

Sherlock leaned in and whispered in his ear. "I want you, John. I want you now." 

"O-o-okay." John stuttered. "Let's go to bed." 

He tried to turn around but Sherlock growled and gripped his hips tighter. The sound made his knees go weak. So far Sherlock had been, if not submissive then hesitant in bed. To have Sherlock take the lead and do so in such a primal manner made John quake with lust. John whimpered as Sherlock ground his erection against his arse. 

"Stay." Sherlock demanded. 

John stayed completely still while Sherlock went to the bedroom. He came back with lube and a condom and John moaned at the sight. Sherlock was walking across the flat with the sole purpose of fucking him. Jesus. 

He closed his eyes as Sherlock approached. The taller man undid and then pulled down and off John's trousers and pants. The cool air of the flat made him shiver and Sherlock slapped one quivering cheek. John tried to breathe evenly, he really did, but it just wouldn't happen. Sherlock slicked up two fingers and rubbed them at John's hole. He hissed in a sharp breath and Sherlock rested his free hand on his shoulder. 

"Relax." He whispered. 

John did his best and after a few seconds of gentle probing Sherlock slipped one slick finger into John's hole. John whimpered loudly as his legs grew even more unsteady. He bent over and rested his head on the desk, a position which gave Sherlock instantly better access. 

"Yes." Sherlock hissed. 

He pushed in a second finger, working them quickly in and out and gripping John's shoulder tight. Once there was barely any resistance left Sherlock pushed in a third finger and turned his wrist, brushing the pads of his strong fingers against that small bundle of nerves. John made a loud 'ah' noise and bucked his hips. 

"Are you ready?" Sherlock asked. 

"Yes, God yes, please." John begged. 

Sherlock took off his trousers and pants and rolled the condom on. He stood close behind John and rubbed some lube on quickly then positioned him at John's entrance. John whined when Sherlock pushed in, thrusting in gentle, small increments until he was fully seated. 

"Oh, that's good. John! Oh." Sherlock said kissing John's neck around the collar of his shirt and rolling his hips. 

John arched his back and stuck his arse out more so Sherlock could get deeper. Seeing John desperate for his cock was almost too much. Sherlock started to thrust shallowly, picking up speed and listening to John fall apart. With every whimper and whine he got braver, and soon he was pummeling into the shorter man. 

"Oh! Oh, John! God, you feel good." He growled. 

"Harder!" John demanded. 

Sherlock thrust faster and gripped John's hips to pull him on and off of his cock. John was mumbling now and shaking. It was fucking beautiful.   
"T-t-touch me, Sherlock!" John begged. 

Sherlock reached around and started to stroke John with the same brutal speed. When John came seconds later, come pulsing all over the desk, his body clenched tightly around Sherlock's and it sent the taller man over the edge. He pushed in as deep and he could and shouted as he released inside John's shaking form. 

"That was..." John tried. 

"Mmm." Sherlock agreed. 

John glanced down to see come covering all the bills he'd just organized and started to giggle. Sherlock looked over his shoulder and burst out laughing too. 

"John, you've just ruined all the work you did." Sherlock teased. 

"Bloody worth it." John sighed. "Bloody worth it."


	21. Rather Exciting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a small talk with Michael at work and John plans for a long day.

Sherlock laughed heartily and stepped back, kissing John's shoulder as the shorter man stood, and then went for a flannel. John closed his eyes briefly and sighed when Sherlock returned and cleaned him up. Sherlock was thorough with the warm rag, drawing it over John gently and paying close attention. When he was done he tossed it in the kitchen sink. 

"Come to bed, John." He beckoned. 

John grabbed his clothes and followed Sherlock into the dark room. He tossed his clothes aside and went to brush is teeth. Sherlock stood next to him and smiled sleepily with a mouth full of foam. He spit and rinsed his mouth and got into bed. Sherlock walked to the other side and crawled under the covers. He took John in his arms and pulled him close. 

"I meant it earlier. You make my life different. You've transformed it. Did before we even met." John whispered. 

"Mmm. You've done the same. Now sleep, I have a long day planned for us tomorrow." Sherlock replied. 

"I've got work tomorrow." John said. 

"Yes, and then you've got a tight schedule. Sleep."

John smiled and rolled his eyes before nestling into Sherlock's chest and falling asleep. When his breathing had evened out and Sherlock's legs had gone itchy from laying too long the genius slowly extricated himself and walked back out into the sitting room. He pulled his laptop against him and sat back going over a few things. 

When he actually went to sleep four hours later John's warm body helped him drift off. He slept with his arm around John's waist for the rest of the night. 

\-----

"I'm going to be late!" John said, jamming a piece of toast in his mouth and loading Sherlock's lunch up for him. 

"I'm almost ready." Sherlock said from the bedroom. 

He came out wearing a crisp black suit that made John want to call the whole day off and crawl back into bed. He always had a way of making the simplest clothes look camera ready. John looked down at his trousers and cream cardigan and frowned. 

"You wouldn't paint racing stripes on a reliable sedan." Sherlock said as he walked out the door. 

"Sorry, what? People do that all the time. That chap round the block has racing stripes on his Volvo." John said, hopping down after him. 

"Well you shouldn't. That's all I'm saying. Besides, I like you in cardigans." Sherlock added. 

"Did you just compare me to a reliable sedan?" John asked. 

"You ARE a reliable sedan. You promise safety and efficiency and I love that about you."

"Oh, I see, and what are you then? Hmm? A Ferrari?" John demanded teasingly. 

Sherlock spun and wrapped his scarf dramatically around his neck. "I'm a BAC Mono." 

"Didn't they compare that to an iPad on Top Gear? 'Don't really need one, but it's a pretty thing' or something like that?" John asked. 

Sherlock's face fell. "Jeremy Clarkson pissed himself in one. I'd say that's a good enough review." 

John couldn't control his smile as he arranged Sherlock scarf and pulled him in for a kiss. 

"I do think you're rather exciting." He admitted. 

Sherlock smiled at that and flipped his collar. John rolled his eyes and followed him down the rest of the stairs. The morning air was cold, wind making it feel like it might snow. They shuffled under the Speedy's overhang and John looked up at the sky. 

"I'll get us a cab. Been meaning to see where you work anyhow." Sherlock said. 

John shrugged and watched as he stuck out his hand and a black cab pulled up right in front of him. 'I bet he pays them to be on call.' John thought. He hurried into it just as the first raindrops fell. Sherlock gripped his hand tightly as John gave the cabby the address. 

The vet's office John worked at was small and tucked away from the street. They exchanged lunch boxes and Sherlock kissed him softly on the lips. John waved as the cab pulled away and then walked inside. 

"Should have known tall, dark and handsome would be your type." The girl at the front desk said. 

John shrugged. "It is now." 

\-----

Sherlock made it all the way to lunch without a confrontation. He kept out of sight and only talked to people when they were being especially stupid. As he was taking a bite of his risotto and squash John's soon to be ex-husband walked up. 

"I hope you know what you're getting yourself into." He said in his best attempt at menacing. 

Sherlock smiled and took another bite. "Something so terrible you'd come knocking on my door to demand it back?" 

Michael's lip curled angrily. "He'll be done with you in a month. He'll still live with you, yeah, but he'll be done. That's the way it always is with Johnny, he acts interested and then goes cold." 

"And do these cold spells coincide with your affairs by any chance?" Sherlock asked. 

Michael's face grew red and he stomped his foot. "Those were none of his business, let alone yours!" 

Sherlock turned his chair around and went back to eating. Michael left after a few moments and he settled back into his own personal calm. The risotto was fantastic, with zucchini and yellow squash. John had added basil and some kind of Romano cheese to the mix. He took a bite of the potato bun and closed his eyes. He couldn't wait for tonight. 

\-----

John opened his lunch box and took out the risotto he and Sherlock had made this morning. Sherlock had put in extra cheese for him and buttered the potato bun. He sat back and thought of how quiet Sherlock had been while they were cooking; his usual bravado lessened while he waited patiently and learned. He was an excellent student. 

At the bottom of the box was a slip of paper. It read:

"JE SERAI POETE ET TO POESIE - Francois Coppee"

He pulled out his mobile and typed in the words, quickly finding a translation. 'I'll be a poet and you'll be poetry'. It sounded to him like heaven. 

\-----

When Sherlock was done with his lunch he set the empty boxes aside and took out the note John had written for him. He ran his fingers over the tight scrawl and just held it in his hand for a few long moments before reading it. This was his favorite part. The note was written. He didn't have to worry if the one from yesterday was going to be his last. 

Finally he pulled himself from his mind and read what was on the page. 

"Will you come travel with me? Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?- Walt Whitman"

He set down the note and clenched his eyes closed. Oh, wouldn't 'as long as we live' be nice?


	22. Lovely

John was putting away supplies, syringes and needles, vaccines and paperwork, when a knock came to the door. He'd closed the door to the surgery bay because a feral cat had got out of its carrier and was running around threatening bodily harm. The cat had been easy to catch once it had holed away in a corner and John had a towel. He looked up at it, its head bowed and ears flat, to make sure the cage was secure. It was. John never messed that up. 

"Come in." He hollered, dropping the used needles in the receptacle and washing his hands. 

The door opened slowly and one of the girls from the front desk walked in. Her cheeks were flushed and she was playing with the ends of her hair. Handsome customer, then. He often wondered if he the two girls at the desk cared about animals as much as footballers and the type. 

"Doctor Watson?" She said nervously. 

"Yes." He replied, drying his hands and grabbing the clipboard. 

"Man up front to see you. He's a bit..." She said. 

John worried for a second that they may have an emergency right before closing, something that happened often now that the word had got round that Watson would help you out even if you didn't have the money. 

"I'll get scrubbed up. Dog or cat?" He asked, already moving to the far cabinet. 

She looked on confused as he moved and just bit her lip. 

"For Christ's sake, canine or feline?" John repeated as he turned to pull out his stethoscope. 

"Neither. Although I haven't been called human either." Came a deep voice from the hall. 

John turned around and grinned as Sherlock walked past the girl, who still looked like a dying guppy, and came to kiss him. John leaned into the kiss, going a bit on tip toe and not giving a damn. 

"Sherlock. You don't get off work for another hour!" He said breathlessly. 

"Left early. We have quite the drive." Sherlock said smugly, happy that his surprise worked. 

John looked around and nodded. He grabbed his coat and took Sherlock's hand. 

"Let's go."

Sherlock walked with him out the back of the building to a small vintage Porsche. He opened the door for John and stood back. 

"How did I not know you owned a car?" John asked Sherlock. 

"I usually keep her in the garage down the street. Wouldn't want her damaged by vandals." Sherlock said. 

'Or soon to be ex-husbands' He thought. 

"So where are we going?" John asked as Sherlock slipped into the driver's seat and started the car up. 

Sherlock smirked and merged into traffic. "Now, that would be telling." 

John smiled and rested against the seat as Sherlock took them further and further from the city. They drove for a long time before Sherlock stopped for petrol just outside of town. John got out to stretch his legs and went to see the horses that were grazing nearby. Sherlock grabbed them a couple of bottled waters and pulled up next to John, who was off in another world as a mare nuzzled his shoulder. 

"You ready?" He asked. 

John looked up, goofy smile spread across his face, and nodded. Sherlock watched him say something to the horse and walk around to get into the car. 

"She was pretty." He said quietly after John closed the door. 

"I've a fondness for them." John said in return. 

"Mmm." Sherlock replied. 

\-----

An hour later, as the sun was finally falling below the farthest hills, Sherlock pulled onto a long lane covered from the road be tall trees. He drove down it slowly and John took in the sight. It was a beautiful farm, huge fields with horses and cows, a large barn off in the distance. 

The lights were on in the barn and the large door was drawn open. Sherlock drove up to it and put the car into park. He turned it off and glanced over at John. 

"What's this place?" John asked, looking around at the land. 

"I helped a local restauranteur get out of a murder charge last year. He's a fantastic chef, and his family have sort of taken me under their wing. I'd like you to meet them." Sherlock replied. 

Just as he did a tall man in an apron walked out to the car. 

"Sherlock!" He shouted. "My friend, so good to see you!" 

Sherlock got from the car and hugged the man. John got out of the car as well and walked around to greet Sherlock's friend. 

"Angelo, this is John." Sherlock said. "John, Angelo." 

John reached out his hand and Angelo shook it roughly. 

"We're just opening the wine, come in!" He said. 

John followed Sherlock and Angelo up a dirt path around the barn and into a large house. There was music playing and the lights were all up. They walked through the entry and right into the kitchen, where people were milling about and children were playing. Just as he'd said, the wine was being poured and Sherlock got himself and John a glass. 

"We're making dinner for twelve tonight, so if you'll wash your hands we can get started." Angelo said, patting Sherlock on the back. 

Angelo's wife, Theodora, handed Sherlock and John aprons and stuffed a piece of cheese into John's mouth. He chewed it, surprised but delighted, and got to work rolling dough out for Angelo. Over the next three hours the men drank and cooked, and were hand fed bits of bread and cured meats. The children would come and go and Theodora made sure they were comfortable. 

They spoke about Sherlock's work and his family, about Angelo's oldest son going abroad to study and his restaurant in town. John was absolutely thrilled to see Sherlock like this, so open and happy. He seemed so sure of himself and John just wanted him to always feel like that. 

When the food was finally ready they served to a table of guests they had met over the last few hours, everyone having milled about while they worked. They sat around a huge table and ate some of the most delicious food John had ever had. The family was loud and happy and John felt for the first time in many years that he belonged. 

"So, John, Sherlock has told me you wooed him with home made lunches." Angelo said after everyone had their food. 

John looked over at Sherlock, surprised that he'd told anyone how they met. 

"I suppose I did." He replied. 

Sherlock blushed. 

"Angelo won over my mother with flat bread. She insisted I let him take me on a date." Theodora said. "I'm glad I did." 

John gripped Sherlock's hand under the table and smiled widely. 

\-----

After dinner was done and they'd sat by a large fire playing music and laughing for a few hours Sherlock told everyone that they had work in the morning, and Angelo walked them to the car. 

"You two are welcome any time. It was nice to meet you, John. Take care of Sherlock, Lord knows he can't do it himself." Theodora said, putting her youngest son down and taking John in an embrace. 

They said their goodbyes and drove off into the night, full and sleepy and satisfied. John watched the countryside turn to city out the window and tried not to fall asleep. 

"That was the most lovely evening I've ever had." He said quietly. "Thank you." 

Sherlock placed a hand on his knee and sighed. "I'm glad you liked it." 

John breathed deeply, rested his face against the cool glass of the window and soon was asleep.


	23. Go Ahead Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get back the the flat. Sex. Mmmhmm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is late. My aunt went into the hospital yesterday after I wrote the first chapter of another story. I hope the sappy love making is enough of an apology.

The car pulled up to a stop in the building down the street. Sherlock sat looking at John for a long while, wondering if he'd ever tire of watching John sleep. He licked his lips and leaned over, rubbing John's shoulder gently to wake him. John made a little 'hu' sound and stretched. His eyes flitted open and he looked up with a smile. 

"Let's get you to bed." Sherlock said quietly. 

John nodded and got from the car. Sherlock left the keys with the attendant who would make sure his car was cleaned and nestled away somewhere inside the complex and they walked the short distance back to the flat with Sherlock's greatcoat wrapped around John's shoulders. On the way up the stairs John stopped Sherlock and looked at him with the sort of acute fondness that Sherlock was still getting used to. 

"Thank you for tonight. I haven't had a proper dinner out with people who didn't treat me like a burden in a long time. Michael's friends hate me. I can't do anything right. I just..."

And suddenly John looked sad, eyes tearing up as he cleared his throat and stood a bit taller. His lips were pulled into a tight line as he seemed to try to get a hold on his emotions. He nodded once before speaking. 

"Well, anyways, thank you." He said stiffly. 

Sherlock, who knew it was hard for him to show emotions without cracking completely, reached for his hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed John's knuckles and walked the rest of the way up the stairs. John stood for a second, breathing slowly, then joined Sherlock in the bedroom. 

Sherlock was unbuttoning his shirt and humming to himself. John recognized it as a song he played on his violin. He kissed Sherlock's neck and went to the loo to get ready for bed. Sherlock joined him and they brushed their teeth in silence. They undressed and put on pajama trousers. 

Once in bed John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him close. Sherlock kissed his forehead and John smiled almost sadly. 

"Being appreciated. This is kind of new. I was never good with emotions, and I'm trying." He whispered. 

Sherlock, who agreed with the sentiment but wasn't comfortable speaking, as emotions were swirling in his stomach and attempting to choke him to death, just nodded and kissed John on the lips. John sighed and kissed him back, chaste at first, then turning into something else entirely. 

Soon heat was coiling deep in his belly and urging him to take more of Sherlock's mouth. He ran his tongue between those gorgeous lips and felt Sherlock sigh as his came to touch. It joined John's tongue and it felt electric. 

John drew back and panted for a moment before pulling his pajama trousers off and doing the same with Sherlock's. He drew his hand down Sherlock's chest and then down his taut stomach. Sherlock took in a quick breath as John's fingers carded through the coarse hair at the base of his cock. John then leaned down to take said cock between his lips. 

It drew a soft moan from Sherlock and John smiled and took more into his mouth. He bobbed his head and suckled at the tip, running the his tongue against the slit. It gave up a few drops of precome and John hummed lightly. Sherlock's hands ran through his hair and he sighed deeply. 

A few seconds later Sherlock brushed his fingers against John's ear and spoke. "I want you inside me." 

John moaned and pulled off, moving up Sherlock's body and leaving soft kisses the whole way. They locked lips again and Sherlock's tongue darted out to taste himself between John's lips. John reached for the bedside table and got out the lube. He kissed Sherlock again briefly before moving between his legs. 

He lifted Sherlock's legs over his shoulders and rubbed two slick fingers between his cheeks. Sherlock let his head fall back again and moaned as John deftly opened him. By the time John had three fingers slowly pumping in and out of him, Sherlock was sweating and desperate. 

"Please." He whimpered. 

John smiled and removed his fingers. He poured more lube into his hand and slicked up his cock, wiping his hand on his discarded trousers and letting Sherlock's legs drop from his shoulders. He took a pillow and nudged in under Sherlock's lower back, then moved forward and pressed the tip of his prick to Sherlock's entrance. 

"Oh, Christ, please." Sherlock begged. 

John pushed forward slowly and closed his eyes as the head of his cock slipped through the first ring of muscle. Sherlock rolled his hips and he slipped in further. He thrust slowly, moving in and out of the tight hot passage, and was soon fully seated. 

Sherlock whimpered and pulled his shoulders down so they could kiss. John thrust gently and then pulled almost all the way out, sinking back in slowly and making Sherlock grunt into his mouth. 

The taller man broke the kiss, breathing roughly, and begged John to start moving. John acquiesced and pumped in and out at a faster pace. 

They were both panting at this point and Sherlock had his hand wrapped around the back of John's neck and was rubbing his thumb soothingly as John picked up speed. 

It was so intimate and so full of painful gratitude that Sherlock wanted it to last forever. His cock twitched between them with a resounding disagreement. He was already close, and the way John's body was rubbing against his straining prick was making him dizzy. 

"I think I need to come." He said weakly. 

John smiled down at him and wrapped a hand around his leaking cock, giving it a quick stroke. "Go ahead, then." 

Sherlock came with a shout, pulsing in John's hand and cursing. John felt his arsehole clench and spasm and buried himself as deep as he could manage. It only took a few desperate thrusts, barely movements at all, for John to start coming as well. Sherlock moaned as he felt John spill into him, that extra bit of wet heat making him shake. 

John stroked him through the aftershocks, drawing the last few bursts of come from his sensitive cock as he rolled his hips gently. He finally collapsed against Sherlock's chest with a deep sigh. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his back and smiled sleepily. 

John would have to get up eventually to clean them both up, but for now he was happy to rest there and listen to Sherlock's heartbeat.


	24. Molasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't beleive how long it took to get this chapter out. Hopefully you can all forgive me, especially Jess, the one person who taught me that I wasn't damned to live life alone.  
> In the words of F Scott Fitzgerald, 'I love her, and that's the beginning and end of everything.'

Sherlock couldn't believe it took him a whole year to do it. The truth was that he kept expecting John to get tired of him, of his black moods, and leave. They were few and far between but they still happened and Sherlock knew it was tough on John. The last time he'd succumbed to one John had nearly torn his own hair out.

Sherlock stood on their doorstep with the small box in his hand and rolled it back and forth. He'd planned it out, had reservations at Angelo's in an hour, but he was still nervous as hell. He finally opened the door and took the steps two at a time. When he entered the flat he found John straightening up the sitting room.

"There you are. I was beginning to wonder." John said as he moved a few books to the correct shelf. "You look a bit off. What's up?"

"I thought things would always go the way they were going. I thought I'd be stuck in that loop forever. I know I'm difficult, I know, but I hope you'll put up with me a bit longer." Sherlock said quickly.

"Put up with you a bit longer? What are you on about?" John asked, becoming a bit concerned.

"John Watson, will you be foolish enough to marry me?" Sherlock asked, pulling the ring from his pocket and holding it out with a shaking hand.

John's mouth fell open and he took a step closer to take the box.

"I'm horrible at this sort of thing. I had dinner planed and everything but I couldn't seem to wait. I hope you can forgive-" Sherlock began.

John pressed his fingers over Sherlock's lips and slipped the ring onto his hand. He grinned widely and shook his head.

"Yes. Yes, you madman." he whispered.

Sherlock sighed deeply, his whole body losing the tension it had been holding, and knelt at John's feet. John ran his finger's through Sherlock's hair and saw the glint from the simple gold band for the first time. It was enough to take his breath away.

_____

The wedding was small, a few family members and friends joined under an old oak tree on Angelo's farm. They stood together and Sherlock was reminded once again how completely impossible it seemed, to end up with this man, this man loving him. John was all giddy smiles and teary eyes as Sherlock pulled his notes out to read his vows.

"To butcher a line from F Scott Fitzgerald, I love you, and that's the beginning and end of everything." he began, "I can't say you made me a romantic fool, I've always been that way, I'm afraid, but Christ knows you've nurtured that particular side of me. I'd like to thank you and curse you in the same breath for that, you've utterly ruined me."

John was crying now, laughing with the crowd, but crying. The tears ran hot down his face and he cleared his throat before starting his own vows. Sherlock was confused as to why people were laughing but decided it was alright because John looked so pleased. He looked on as his soon-to-be husband spoke to him in a voice cracking with emotion.

"Sherlock, you're by best friend and my home. You're fun and danger and safety. I know I'll never grow weary of loving you."

_____

They did live happily ever after. There were bumps in the road and fights about experiments gone wrong, things that had always happened, but they got through them. They got through them and loved each other and ended up raising a headstrong and brilliant son. They moved to the country when they retired and Sherlock got bees and John got a few horses and their son and his family came to visit on holidays and things grew slow like molasses as they often do at the end of one's life. Slow and sweet.


End file.
